The George Costanza of Housekeeping.

Today was another Sunday of thinking about cleaning. Lots of thinking, not a lot of doing. My room is an epic failure. When I go to bed at night I feel like a boy. You know, one of those boys at college. You walk into their dormroom and you are baffled at how anyone can live in such a disatrous, smeeeelly bit of living space. I have lived like that recently. It's been about 3 weeks of "I will definitely get to it tomorrow. Tomorrow is going to be such an awesome cleaning day." But it never seems to happen. I did manage to pick up the kitchen, do a load of laundy, vaccuum the porch, and start filing the pile of paperwork at my desk. That's a pretty good day, but because there's so much to do, I didn't even make a dent. June Cleaver, where are you when I need inspiration?

Just as I'm feeling my dumpiest, I pick up this month's edition of Redbook (because one cannot procrastinate without proper reading material.) To my joy I find a collection of letters the gents have written for their ladies:
I love your very bad housekeeping
O Annabelle...
Why am I charmed by the way you rip open cartons of cereal, packages of deli meats, and bags of potato chips like you are a feral, starving animal? Whenever I see those slashed, leaking, torn-asunder containers, I gush with amorous affection. And I'd love for some scientist to explain how you can jam your laundry into the washer like you're stuffing a holiday turkey, let your clothes sit in the dryer for days before pulling then out all stuck together, and then shove them unfolded into your dresser-- and yet the moment you put them on, they look amazing! You go out all professional and pressed, but I get to see the genuine you, the raw, wild, sexy Annabelle; my undomesticated bride.
Jeff

And with this there is some hope, dear reader. A sprinkle of light scattered in my direction that a) one day Amy, you will get that food processor inside your head working correctly, and your appendages will move at sonic speed to maintain a lovely home and b) even if you don't, your man still loves you anyway.