If your house is a mess, read this and you'll feel better

When I saw this photo in the Huff Post, I thought, "Hey, my dresser. Why is a picture of my dresser online?" and then I had to read on, because I wanted to know more about the person who has a dresser that looks as deranged and ransacked as mine, and who feels comfortable posting that picture on the world wide web. So I read What Normal Looks Like, and now I'm sharing it. You're welcome.

Too often when I read pieces about parenting, they give me either a headache or a panic attack.  This one, however, did neither. It made me laugh and it made me feel relieved. It injected a healthy and much-needed dose of sanity into my day. Because I am the person who greets you at the door, wildly apologizing for the state of my house, except my house is not immaculate, it's actually filthy. Guests will actually brush crumbs off my bar stools. They will step on tiny Legos and cry out in pain. They will need to wait for a glass of water while I wash them a cup from the overflowing pile in the sink. They will not be able to stop themselves from taking a paper tower and just wiping down the counter because it will only take a second to dispose of the dried Rice Krispies and then they can focus on the conversation.

My apartment is so frequently such a sty that my husband and I refer to it as Das Messen Haus which is  in no way correct German, but a term we invented to add some humor and tension relief into the air because when we look at the state of our house we are, basically, always horrified.

I've written about having people over at my messy house before -- My House is A Pigsty, anyone? It's a problem I can't solve until I  A. have less kids living in my tiny apartment or B. have  enough money to pay for a housecleaner. So, what I really need is permission to let myself off the hook, and assurance that other people are in the same filthy boat. I need this:

"Normal: There is a room in your house that always stays cluttered and messy, and much like Lady Macbeth's hands, will never be clean.

Normal: Your kids' bath toys are right where they left them after the bathwater drained

Normal: Cups and cups and cups. Everywhere. All the time."

Elizabeth Broadbent, you are cordially invited over to play at my place. Just don't wear dry-clean-only clothes.

$400 Trash Cans?

My nesting craze has continued unabated, only picking up steam as I near my due date. It was only a matter of time before my organization zeal turned its unrelenting eye to the trash corner of our apartment.

Our kitchen is not so much a kitchen as a corner of the living space which a high density of appliances. I just asked David to estimate how big it is and he guesses 5 x 3. Feet. It is a tiny little crumb of space. And half of it is covered with trash.

I am referring to literal trash We've got our stainless steel, step-top garbage can and that does the job well. But then next to that is our "recycling center." This is a gross overstatement. It consists of two tiny plastic cans, one purple for paper and one mint green for plastic, with no lids, smashed next to the trash can which is smashed next to the oven. Neither one of the recycling bins is large enough to hold more than two standard-sized recyclable items. Put one carton of milk and one soda can in the plastic bin and it is full. So even if I emptied the things out several times a day (and lets be serious for a second, who does that?) it would still always be full and always look like crap.

Mixed in between the three cans is a pile of "what-the-hell-do-we-do-with-this-shit?" garbage. Mainly, this is electronics like an old laptop someone gave me last year which never worked and batteries. I know I'm not supposed to just throw them out but I don't know what the hell to do with them. So they keep the garbage company.

In my travels to other people's houses, I have seen that not all grown-ups live this way, Other people have recycling areas which are well-maintained and tidy. All it took, it appeared, was a decent-sized bunch of recycling bins, one with tops. How hard could that be?

Not hard at all, it turns out. But really freaking expensive.

To the tune of $400.

Don't know precisely when it happened but since the last time I went trash-can-shopping, about a decade ago, garbage cans have become high-end speciality items. They now have features like "Auto-close" and "Motion Sensor." They are all stainless steel. After some cyber-browsing, I discovered if you're in the market for a garbage can, and you don't want- or can't - spend $70 or more, you basically are stuck with a white plastic swing top. Two or which'll still cost you a good $40. The whole thing was demoralizing, almost enough to make me accept my purple and mint-green garbage-y garbage center.

But then Ikea saved the day. Again.

Because in their marketplace, I helped myself to two tall, rectangular lift-top trash cans which can hold up to two or three days worth or recyclables without me having to empty them out. Together, they cost under $30. Perfection. Bliss.

The only problem which remains is that I'm such a hoarder, I can't bear to part with the old recycling bins yet. I am certain there is a good use for them, somewhere. So they still hover in my garbage corner, though they've done from holding the garbage to becoming the garbage. What can I say? Life's tough.

My House is A Pigsty

One of my mommy friends recently came over for a playdate and told me how refreshing it is to come to our house because I’m not one of those moms who’s worried about keeping up the appearance of having everything neat and tidy and in order.

“My house is a pigsty, you mean?” I said.

“And I think the state of mess in your house works in proportion to how happy you are with your spouse. And you and David are one of the happiest couples I know,” she went on.

“I know you’re not the kind of person who gets offended by that sort of thing,” she added.

I hastened to tell her that she was wrong on two counts: A. That David and I were one of the happiest couples and B. That I’m not the easily-offended type. David and I fight like we’re on Jersey Shore half the time and I, of course, want people to think that I am effortlessly perfect. 

“I don’t want people to think I am a slob, for crying out loud,” I exclaimed.

“You’re not a slob,” she said, “It’s just nice because I go over to other moms’ houses and everything is perfectly in place and it makes you feel bad about the state of your own house.”

The distressing thing was, I didn’t think my house was that messy.

I mean, it wasn’t a day where I swang my front door open with gusto, feeling pride over the fact that my dining room table could actually be used to eat on, rather than rest junk on. It wasn’t a day where my bed was made or where all the stray crayon masterpieces were stowed in their proper place or where I’d done the dishes. It wasn’t THAT kind of day. But it also wasn’t a day where I felt compelled to say, “My house s a total mess,” as I let the guests in.

“If I waited til my house was in order to have people over, we’d never see anyone!” I told her.

“I know,” she said.

“And every spare second I have, I’m working or playing with the kids,” I said, “so when can I clean?”

“I know," she said.

“Plus, as soon as I clean everything up, the kids walk through and instantly re-set it back to maximum mess,” I said.

My friend smiled but said nothing, waiting for the unexpected explosion of defensiveness to blow over. I guess I’d duped her into thinking that I was actually comfortable in my skin and brimming with self-acceptance which of course, I am not. Far from it. Because after my crazy defensive tirade, I proceeded to clean up my house, right in the middle of the playdate. Picking up discarded pajama pants and stray Legos, pairing up shoes and placing them by the door.

And I continued on this over-zealous cleaning jag for about a week, after which point, I found myself spent and relapsed as a slob.

So when my friend Amelia unexpectedly popped over last weekend, she found our house in its standard state of disrepair. What David likes to call Das Messenhaus.

“Your place looks like a tornado hit it,” she said, laughing.

“I know,” I said, “But it is precisely because of this mess that David and I are one of the happiest couples in New York.”