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I think I’ve probably pointed out before that I am a stress cleaner. My house doesn’t seem to get a deep clean unless something is really bugging me. I’d love to be one of those people who keeps an immaculate home all the time—a place for everything and everything in its place kind of person. I admire all that order. There is something calming about a lack of clutter. Something inviting about the lack of grime. My fantasy life is full of pantries with perfectly labeled spice jars, lined up with their identical fronts facing out. And steel framed racks with fabric baskets holding all my cleaning supplies; which, coincidentally, are all made by the same company and therefore co-ordinate. Mish-mash is not a part of this world; there is no place for tufts of dog and cat hair to accumulate in corners. If it does, it’s quickly sucked up with my powerful, yet stylish, mini-vac that is stored in the laundry space on the wall dedicated to such implements. The debris of small children is banished to a far-away place called somebody else’s house and there is not a finger-print to be found on any painted surface.

Yes, that’s right. My fantasy life is a Pottery Barn catalog.

I would point out that the make-believe inhabitants of the Pottery Barn catalog do not have a dog and a cat, and their children are clearly just cut-out cardboard figurines who know how to keep a room tidy. But the truth is, I’ve met these people in real life. And they do have dogs. They do have cats. And somehow, they’ve trained their children to pick up after themselves. There are people in this world whose homes make magazine spreads, people in this world who manage to organize their spaces in such a way that their home always appears to be clean. People who enjoy organizing and cannot imagine grime of any kind because they have never seen it.

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I am not one of these people. It is not that the fantasy isn’t possible. It is. It’s just not who I am. No amount of organizing will alter my DNA. Somewhere in a helix of neucleotides there is a gene labeled “SLOB”. . . the benefactor of this quirky gene is still unknown.

My mother, bless her, is my genetic opposite. She is hardwired for order and cleanliness. She is one of those women who people accurately describe as a neat-freak. Our floors were “clean enough to eat on.” This was her bragging right, and she was entitled to it considering it was true. My room, of course, being the one exception to perfection. Growing up, this clash of genetic properties created its own sort of drama. Try as she might, she just couldn’t get me to keep my room tidy. In my own defense, I did actually CLEAN my room—every time it was suggested I do so. It’s just that my room would no sooner pass inspection that it would fall into disarray. This little phenomenon played itself over and over until she just gave up. I settled into my clutter and she ignored my room.

While I didn’t get the gene that could keep things clean. I did get the conditioning that said I should. I’ve never been able to shake it. It’s why, hours before people come over I find myself dashing around like a crazy person attempting to manage the clutter. Maintaining order is no small feat. Compelling order from chaos, is an act of God. Which is why, these dashes to clean barely scratch the surface. There is only time enough to make things presentable—as I’ve allowed all previous attempts at organization to fall into disarray. Dusted, vacuumed, grime banished. Just don’t open any drawers.

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I am surface clean. (and the preacher in me is going to avoid the obvious sermon here!) It’s better than not being surface clean. It could be worse, I’ve seen my son’s room. He is a child born without either the compulsion or the ability to clean. At least I know how, right? Or so I console myself.

So, it takes making me really angry to get anything organized beyond the top layer. Or, a whim. And a few months ago (yes, yes, this is my point!) IZ and I bought some drawer organizers for the kitchen. They have sat in their boxes for the past 6 weeks, mocking my chaos. Who knew cardboard could be so sarcastic. Why my neat-nic of a husband thought I would be the person to install them is beyond me. I mean, the kitchen is considered his domain since I’m banned from cooking. Something about burning down the house. Six weeks later, I have managed to bust them out of their sarcastic packaging. I have installed them and compelled order.

I’d feel good about it, elated in fact, if I did not know that my underwear drawer looks like this:

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I can dust, vacuum, and banish grime. That much you can see on the surface. I just wouldn’t recommend opening any drawers besides the ones in the kitchen.