That title makes me look like P!nk, doesn’t it? Like the Blow Me (One Last Kiss) song title? Just say “yes,” and we’ll move on.
In days, years, and blog posts past, I’ve shared my less-than-stellar skills with the whole housewifing thing. In summary: I suck.
I 100% suck at being a housewife.
There are hairballs in the corners of the kitchen and bathrooms. Which, OK, I have approximately 4-1/2 pounds of hair on my head that I shed like a sheepdog, but the fact remains, it balls up and gathers with the dust and lives in the corners.
I let my 7 -and 8-year-olds clean their own bathroom sink. That’s enough of an explanation.
This is a picture of what my girls did to their playroom from 2008, but if I were brave enough to take and share pictures of their rooms and mine now, it’s not far from the truth.
Our kitchen sink is never empty. Like, ever. There’s always dirty dishes waiting for the dishwasher and/or clean dishes “drying.” Fly Lady would have a coronary if she saw my sink. She says my sink should sparkle, but my kitchen sink hasn’t sparkled since early 2003.
Clean clothes have piled up in the laundry room/closet to the point that Claire gets lost under a mix of hockey jerseys, bras, and little girl tank tops every morning hunting for a matching outfit. There has been 2-1/2 baskets of clean, unfolded laundry sitting in my living room for over a week. One of them has now being used as a landing pad for jumping-off-the-ottoman children.
We’re not quote at the point of being filmed for an episode of Hoarders, but isn’t denial the first step of recovery?
My point here is that you can use me. Use me on which to compare your own messy house, saying to yourself, “It’s not as bad as Angie’s house.” Because unless you have dead cats buried under 5-year-old cottage cheese and newspapers from 1994, your house is not as bad as mine.