When we left our tiny, cramped NY style apartment I vowed to my husband I’d make a huge attempt at being less er, messy. Like, if I changed a diaper on the couch I wouldn’t leave it on the coffee table for a few hours, or when I went from one mumu to the next, I wouldn’t leave them scattered around the house.

Right.

We are one month in folks, and I’m still slobbing-hard. The bedroom has formula on the nightstand that to the innocent visitor may look like I had a cocaine fuled night. If you open the door to my bathroom closet two weeks worth of dirty mumus and yoga pants will fall to your feet. Check my sink, yes, dishes from dinner a few nights ago! And my office smells funny, I wonder what’s growing?

Teach me the ways. How do I become a domestic goddess? How do I teach myself to give a shit when the laundry is overflowing if “Aftermath, Population 0″ is on in high def? How do I promise to clean up the clothes from the floor when I’m in the middle of reading my daughter “Buttons” before bedtime, and after I plan on sitting on the deck and sneaking a ciggarette? HOW? My best friend told me my half assed attempts at domestic life are endearing, but my husband finds me annoying.

Example: I was enthusiastic about planting some flowers, but got fed up halfway so I threw some dirt in the pots, threw the plants in, grabbed a soda and proudly exclaimed “I did it, looks beautiful!” And the sad thing is, I really WAS proud of myself.

I’ve talked about how undomestic I am before, but it’s spinning out of control. Bad. And with two dogs, two cats, and a kid I’m in too deep. Yet, I refuse to pay Merry Maids to come and clean because that’s just wrong.

Slobs unite.