Last night during pillow talk, the truth came out. I was blabbing on about the house being messy and my lack of domestic skills (I have often referred to myself as the anti-housewife) my husband gallantly denied that it was that bad.
I started to joke about my shortcomings as a housewife:
He said: Actually, you tricked me into marrying you.
She said: What??? (and I made a scrunchy face)
He said: I never lived with you before we were married. You always lived so far away that you had time to tidy up before I got there.
She said: I guess that's the advantage of a four year long, long distance relationship. So, you'd change your mind?
He said: Darn right! (I did kick him in the shin at this point).
It was all in good fun, but I guess I did pull a number on him. I have never been an organizer. My lifelong best friend has always had neat and tidy stacks with labeled files in color-coded file folders and I've always been a scrambler. I always find what I'm looking for, I always get there on time, I always get the job done--except it's a bit of a safari on the way.
If the kids are required to have a white t-shirt for some school function, I am bombing it up to Target (the whole 20 minutes it takes to get there! Tell me again why we don't have a closer Target? Oh, that's another blog.) to buy a white T-shirt.
Realize gentle reader, it is not because my child doesn't have a white t-shirt or two or three, it is because I can't find it in my laundry maze, er, system. But, believe you me, my child will be on stage with a crisper, whiter shirt than I could ever finesse in the laundry room--plus no wrinkles.
Yes, it takes less time to drive the 40 minute round trip to Target than it takes to find something in my own house. It could be my ADHD. It could be that I grew up with a special organizing system called my Mom. Whatever the cause, I guess I should have alerted my husband to what he was getting into--although I was so young then, that I didn't even know that I was an organizational disaster.