Abyss of Filth

I come from a long line of people I would refer to as "Scrubby Dutch". They are obsessively neat people known to scrub their sidewalks. I did not inherit this genetic trait. At all. I haven't decided whether or not that is a good thing, but I have always marvelled at the non-messy among us, you know, those people who actually buy white sofas and manage to keep them that way. Tidiness is just not in my nature.

I once worked with this woman whose desk was always in perfect order. Mine always looked like the aftermath of an explosion in a office supply store. Every day before I went home, I had to dig through all the crap, reorganize, and by the end of the day the next day, my desk was once again a junk heap. I tried keep the desk organized. It lasted about a week. I couldn't get a damn thing done and it made me a nervous wreak.

My mother once painted the inside of her cabinets. It had never even occurred to me to do this. Paint the inside of cabinets? Isn't that is what the doors are for?

I have a housekeeper, a lawn guy and a bug guy and they just barely keep the home from teetering off in to the abyss of filth. Yet, I always seem to be cleaning something or other. Somehow, the Rubbermaid tub of books just doesn't get dragged into the basement. The garage never gets cleaned-out.

I love those beginning-of-the-year, get-organized New Year's resolution articles and shows where everything is in its place. Every time I have ever tried to organize stuff there is always something that doesn't quite fit in the handy-dandy organizer that seemed like such a good idea at the store. Some big ass lid, or something, will always trip me up when I have delusions of neatness. Or I have one thing too many. I like to think that somewhere Martha Stewart has a messy closet packed full of crap that won't fit anywhere else.