Clutter and Mess

"Don't touch my stuff.

I know right where everything is.

What you're callin' a mess

is my organizational system."

--Zach Gill, Don't Touch My Stuff

I am not a neat person. I admit it. You would not find housekeeping anywhere on a list of my talents. Sentimentality, procrastination, poor time management skills, the teeniest tendency toward hording, a lack of DIY skills, and downright laziness conspire against any fantasy I might have of a house that will one day be discovered by Sunset magazine. 


Paper enters the house at an alarming rate. It multiplies in baskets and piles all over the house. Orgies of bills, school notices, old homework, sheet music, junk mail, retirement statements, and check stubs all wait (or rather riot) for someone to discipline them. Open any closet and you will be assaulted by all manner of toys, backpacks, pictures, clothes, and random "stuff," unceremoniously shoved inside in half assed attempts at housecleaning. There's almost always laundry waiting to be washed or folded and dishes in the sink. Housecleaning is so darn Sisyphean. I hate that.


Here's the thing though. While I am ready to stand up and testify at any slobs anonymous meeting, my dear husband holds on to the fantasy that he is a beacon of cleanliness and organization in our family. He is the Savior and, if only the kids and I would follow in his footsteps, we would find salvation from the tyranny of clutter and mess that rules our home. I'm here to tell you this is just not true. I need only point to the growing pile of mail that is currently preventing him from joining the family at the dining room table, or the unworn 1970s fashions that still hang in his closet. It took both of us to conceive our children, my dear. And it took both of us to conceive this mess.


It's all about priorities. I'm not claiming any higher ground here, but given the choice between cleaning the bathroom and going on a long walk with friends on a beautiful afternoon, I will choose the latter in a heartbeat. There are piles of laundry staring me in the face right now, but I would so much rather write about them than wash them. And I hate to call my husband out on this (actually I love to call him out on this), but I have watched his pile of mail grow while he sits contentedly in the backyard with a beer after a long run on the beach.


I actually subscribe to Sunset magazine. My husband calls it porn, pure fantasy. I prefer to think of it as inspirational reading. Maybe someday we'll find a way to strike a balance between long walks and a clean bathroom. With a little acceptance and a lot of patience, I'd like to think we can create a home we love. Anyway, doesn't Sunset do home makeovers? Sign us up!


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