The Road to Squalor, Paved with Good Intentions

I need to have a discussion with you about my filth. And when I say "discussion," I mean that I want some answers. There are so many of you out there (I've been in your homes and I know who you are and I know where you live) who keep your filth at bay so well that I find it very hard to like you. Oh I still do like you, love you even, but that's just a testament to your many redeeming qualities. Because, like I said, you make it hard.

To add insult to injury, lots of you have children, at least as many as I have, and some of you have more--disgusting little filth-makers down to every everloving last one of them. And those of you without kids, you're not off the hook either, YOU tend to have DOGS!!! Come on! What, do you all have vacuum parts implanted into your limbs that pop out when you need them like goddamn Wolverine?!?!? (Can you get that done...does anybody know?) Sorry, but I find all this very difficult to take.

When I say that you "keep the filth at bay," what I really mean is that the interiors of your homes look like pictures from any of those magazines that make me hate myself. You know the ones...they taunt and malign people like me, sitting there on their racks with titles like Better [than yours] Homes and Gardens, Good [luck] Housekeeping, and, one of my faves, Real [are you frickin serious?] Simple.

And if your houses only look that good because you've got company, that doesn't cut any ice with me. Because first of all...me? Company? Get serious. Moreover, when I know that YOU are coming over, I start the cleaning mission two days in advance so that when you finally get here maybe you'll feel ok about letting your kid open his mouth to eat a goldfish cracker.

And by the way, while we're being all candid and open, I know you're talking about me behind my back about it too. The second you leave you're on your cell phones. Betchya thought I wasn't wise to that but don't kid yourselves. I am soooo on to you. With perfect clairaudience I hear your thoughts and you know what? They leave me spent, wrung out like a used-up rag, flat on my back with a washcloth over my eyes for a minimum of 3 days while MORE filth builds up. Hope you're happy.  Because damn straight I hear you. Any of this sound familiar?

Eeeeeeew, how does she live like this?

When was the last time that bowl saw the business end of a toilet brush?

You call those things curtains? Are they MADE of cobweb?

Wonder if she even OWNS a vacuum cleaner.

Have they painted their walls since legwarmers were in style?

Maybe if we all chipped in and bought her a Swiffer Wet-Jet...


I know, I know, I KNOW! You think I don't see it?!?!?!? But people, we've been through this, haven't we? I'm what is known as an Everloving Mess. It's been well established, Google it, it's all right there.  I think it's a chromosomal defect (for which I do not fault my parents, these things happen, no sense in throwing blame around). It's just a little piece of DNA I'm missing, the piece that carries the data for all the skills that all you little Suzy Homemaker Domestic Goddesses out there make look so easy. Well, in my own personal cells that gene got a little frayed, that's all. Don't judge me because I'm a mutant, it's so not a good color on you.

The thing I really don't get is that according to the much-buzzed-about Law of Attraction, my circle of peeps should be veritably bursting at the edges with slobs like me. Yet somehow I've managed to summon into my locus of contact and concern and loving acquaintance a veritable gaggle of Donna Reeds and Martha Stewarts. How do you think this makes me feel? Like the Ugly Betty of playgroups and mom's clubs everywhere, that's what. Hope you're happy, bitches.

There's only one possible explanation that I can come up with to give meaning to this whole unfortunate set of circumstances, and I'm going to share it here, just try and stop me. Here it is. You may not agree, but, let's face it, you would be so utterly wrong.

You people need me. Yes, yes, yes you do, you need me. And it's not just about feeling better about yourselves because I'm such a magnificent disaster area and you're such Neaty McNeatersons in comparison (although let's be honest, that's part of it). Here's how I'd like to think it plays out.

You come over, you notice a livingroom baseboard covered with a layer of encrusted grime and gore that obviously dates back to the Carter administration. You, in turn, go home and notice the 3 specs of dust (no doubt made of particles of rainbows, unicorns, and newborn baby hair) that have accumulated on your own livingroom baseboard since you left your premises a few hours before.

Now here's where the magic happens, the alchemy, the miracle, the namaste, the divinity in me saluting the (so freaking obnoxiously immaculate) divinity in you.

Instead of jumping up and removing the 3 specs right then and there, something in you says to stay your hand against those impudent offenders, that approaching army of grime, for just a few short minutes, a blip on the radar screen of an eternity of cleanliness-next-to-godliness.

You hear me whispering in your ear, softly, like a lover...do it...lie down...nobody has to know. You feel a sinful pleasure sneak over you as you give in, you close your eyes against the specs, you feel a little bit dirty and you don't care, you even like it a little. I see you there, letting your dark side take over. You let yourself fall back on your chaise lounge with the white upholstery, cucumber slices appearing out of the ether over your soon-to-be-unpuffy eyes, your blood pressure easing, your hormone levels balancing, your natural hair color holding back its insidious, unyielding return to your roots for maybe one day more.

Why?

All because of me. I was there to give you a little perspective, people. There's your Real Simple for ya. And then, 5 minutes of nirvana complete, up you come and--where the hell are those Swiffers-- bango! Baseboard dust specs banished to oblivion forever. They'd increased to 9 in number now instead of just the 3, squared themselves while you were resting, the nasty little buggers. But still they're gone, and you've won, like you always do. Best of all, nobody but me knows what you did during those 5 delicious minutes of bliss, you naughty little slacker...it's our (dirty) little secret.

Just sit there for a minute more and bask in your gratitude for the likes of me.

You're welcome.