Domestic Confessions

I am a terrible housekeeper.

I have not mopped the floor since John's parents visited last, which I think was a few months ago.

The only thing I can stay on top of is laundry, and that's only because I like to fold towels.

Our apartment is decorated much more poorly than a guy's college dorm room, and there is a mountain bike in our kitchen.

There are bags of plastic recycling piling up in the living room which I've been planning to cart to the recycling place for months.

Upon opening, I immediately stick every bill, letter, card, or flyer into an overstuffed basket on the kitchen table. John regularly fishes out receipts and other important bits of information.

Everything is dusty.

I'm supposed to be doing the dishes right now, but they are "soaking."

I didn't realize how bad things were until John and I were discussing my interest in getting a rabbit from the Nashville Bunny Rescue. The conversation went something like this:
"Are you going to clean out its cage?"--John.
"Of course I will!"--me.
"We can't even keep our apartment clean."--John.
"Oh."--me.

Bunnies might have to wait.

I really don't know how this happened. In college I was a neat freak: I made my bed every day, alphabetized the poetry section of my bookshelf, color-coordinated my closet. My roommate was a clutter bug and nearly made me crazy with clothes on the floor, papers scattered everywhere, dishes left in the sink.

Alas, the tables have turned. At least I'm enough of a feminist to know that this doesn't reflect upon my intrinsic worth as a human being. And I never forget to water our bamboo.

Still, God help us.