This morning, my nerves tingled with excitement, and my mind filled with glee.  Glorious, wonderful, earth-shattering glee.

Oh, you don’t have to blush.  There’s  nothing kinky going on around here.  Not unless hound dogs wearing undies give you a thrill.  No, I think my husband and I would both agree–the event that occurred today was better than the kinky stuff.  Heck, it may be even better than chocolate.  See, today was the day our cleaning lady came to detoxify our home.

It may not sound exciting to you, but to us?  Trust me.  It’s monumental.  I mean, you’ve seen the photos of our house. 

Oh, I know what you’re thinking—a bulldozer would be a more appropriate cleaning tool than a house-cleaner, but hey—beggars can’t be choosers.  And while we really need an industrial strength cleaning about five times a day (at a bare minimum), that’s just a bit out of our budget.  So it’s pretty world-shattering stuff around here when our cleaning lady does arrive, to save us from the monster mounds of dog hair and the assorted piles of baby gunk that threaten to consume us whole. 

Once upon a time, our cleaning lady came one time a month, but we’ve recently switched to this every other month schedule.  The intention was that I would pick up the slack and save money.  Well, I can vouch that the money’s being saved.  As for the cleaning?  Well, one out of two ain’t bad.

So, given the fact that we really, really NEED this cleaning, you’d think we’d have the house picked up in plenty of time for our cleaning lady to do her job, right?  Yeah, maybe in a Utopian society in Never-Neverland (not to be confused with Michael Jackson’s Neverland, although I suppose there are kids involved in both of these scenarios).  In the very pedestrian microcosm of our home?  It never happens. 

What does happen?  Typically, I’m running around the night before (okay, so it’s more like the morning of) the scheduled cleaning, frantically trying to pick up piles of laundry, and clear off counters (amazingly enough, cleaning ladies can’t clean counters when there’s no visible counter space to clean), and fling the million and a half homeless toys into some semblance of order.  Usually, I do the entire house by myself, and the closer it gets to our house-cleaner’s arrival, the more agitated I become.  And invariably, I get grumpy with my husband.  Why?  Because, one can only make so many trips up and down the stairs carting moldy hubby socks, undies, and various other discards that should have been enjoying a long life at the city dump eons ago, without getting bitter.

This time, in the hopes of avoiding the whole grumpy phase, I assigned hubby one small room to pick up.  The loft.  It’s his area, so I figured it made sense if he picked it up.  Silly me.

In case anyone needs to know, this is my hubby’s idea of a tidy house:

Exhibit A:  Does this look tidy to you? (and yes, that is a gi-normous Warhol-esque painting of hound dogs on our wall)

Exhibit B:  dirty husband undies and other assorted nasties

Exhibit C:  more dirty husband undies, accompanied by dirty pants, a doodle paper (undoubtedly filled with “psychopharmacology”, hubby’s favorite word), and an ancient coffee lid

Exhibit D:  Hubby’s table o’ crap

Exhibit E:  Hubby busted with a new Wii game, which was strictly prohibited

Exhibit E:  Apparently, this is where hubby thinks we store extra blankies

I know, I know—if I’d just stopped to glance at the title even once while writing my last post, I would’ve remembered what the heck I was supposed to writing about .  But that would have required (a miniscule amount of) thinking.  Which, by the end of the day, is not my strong point.  Besides, my brain likes to hibernate at night (which is how I excuse my reality show habit).  You know, bears should really think about wintering on chocolate truffle cake—it sure does the trick for me.

So, finally, on to the intended subject of my last post—-our 3-car garage  (afer all that build-up, this is destined to be anti-climactic). 

When we bought this house, there were two things I really, really craved—a huge walk-in closet, and a bigger kitchen.  There were also two things my husband wanted—a big yard and a 3-car garage.

Somehow, yours truly ended up the big stinkin’ loser of that round.  Prior to moving, I wasn’t even aware it was possible to trade up to a bigger house while trading down in kitchen space.  And the walk-in?  Well, I can ambulate into it, so I suppose it qualifies.  What I really wanted, though, was one of those gi-normous ones I could throw a decent-sized party in, if I so desired.  Unfortunately, unless I’m planning a fiesta for two very, very intimate friends, it ain’t happening. 

So, my husband ends up with a bigger yard (for which we have to out-source the upkeep) and a 3-car garage.

Personally, I think the larger garage was a really bad idea.  My theory?  Well, it’s based on purses.  See, if you are a purse-stuffer, like myself, then you know it’s best to carry a tiny purse.  Why?  Because no matter what size purse you carry, it will soon be filled to the brim, and then some, with a plethora of crap.  And the rules of physics and basic anatomy dictate that a smaller crap-stuffed purse is much lighter and easier to manage than a larger crap-stuffed purse.

This same rule applies to garages.  When you are a horrible unorganized pack-rat, it makes sense to err on the side of a smaller crap-stuffing space.   Don’t believe me?  Well, I’m pretty sure a quick gander at our garage is all the convincing you’ll need.

Exhibit A:  left side of garage

Exhibit B:  middle of garage (Yes, that’s the car that was totaled back in  April, 2007.  If you’re wondering why it’s still here, you need to check out a few of my posts on procrastination.  But, hey, it makes a nice suitcase and box holder, don’t you think?)

Exhibit C:  right side of garage:

The funniest part?  My husband likes to give me grief about what he calls “the wife drawer” in the kitchen, because it’s so messy.  But the garage is his domain.

So I’ll take my tiny drawer in my tiny kitchen, thank you very much, and leave him with this:

By the way, some of the bins on the left?  Those are the clothes that don’t fit in my new closet.

Paybacks work in mysterious ways.

Actually, today was a pretty good day for hubby.  Although he still hasn’t mastered the trash can (or recycling bin, but that would really be pushing it):

Also, my husband apparently has yet to figure out that dirty clothes don’t walk themselves down to the laundry room.  If only we could train the clothes!  However, since I can’t even train my puppy that her food comes from a dog bowl and not the kitchen trash (hey, at least she knows where it’s located, unlike certain other family members), or train my husband to pick up his raunchy undies, or train my 4 yr old to wipe his own tushy, I think clothes-training might be a bit lofty a goal for me.

Exhibit A:  Hubby obviously has decided that the floor by the bed is a good substitute for the laundry basket.

Exhibit B:  Hubby obviously thinks it is accepted practice to simply dump the unwanted contents of your gym bag on the floor wherever it’s handy.  Nothing like a little eau de sweaty feet wafting through the family room.  Maybe it will help me cut back on snacking.

(Disclaimer:  composition of any and all photos may be modified to disguise the messes of other family members–namely, mine.)

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a great husband.  Really, he’s wonderful—super supportive, quick to send me on a mom’s night out, etc, etc.  He’s also a great father.  He loves to spend time with the munchkins, and rarely complains.

But, he does come with one minor glitch.  He’s a slob.  Which in and of itself, wouldn’t be so bad, but the thing is—he doesn’t think he’s a slob.  Oh, he knows he’s messy, but he thinks it’s the garden-variety type messiness.  Not the full-blown slobdom that it truly is.

What are the criteria for massive slovenliness, you might ask?  Well, here are a few of mine.

1)  Cuts hair, and leaves it in the sink for over 3 days.  Extra points if the sink in question is the downstairs guest bathroom (it is).

2)  Cannot find the trash can to save his life, even though, to the best of my knowledge, the trash has resided in the same spot since we moved in over two years ago.

Exhibit A:  Is this where you put your ice cream box once the contents have been devoured?  I think not.

Exhibit B:  Trash from the lunch I brought home on Sunday.  I don’t know, maybe he thinks it’s a nice decorating touch—-bag lady chic, perhaps?

3)  Throws dirty clothes in the most convenient location, which is typically the floor.  Extra points when they are dripping wet and muddy (they are).

 4)  Piling a table with assorted crap, and then leaving it there until I remove it.  Extra points if table was freshly cleaned (it was).

What he doesn’t believe (yet) is that I spend so much time tidying up his messes throughout the house, I have a scarcity of time left to actually clean anything, in the true sense of the word.

I’m hoping by keeping a photo-blog of his daily disasters, he might actually a) realize he’s far, far beyond your basic messy husband and b) learn to use the garbage can.

Honey, are you reading this?