My younger brother moved into my basement. The mister and I pretty much run a bed and breakfast for various family members and friends out of that spare room and that’s fine. We’re glad the space is being used and happy to help out when we can. I mean, the next houseguest that plugs up our plumbing by flushing things that should not be flushed and costs us close to $700 in plumbing repairs is dead meat, but otherwise it’s fine.
Before my brother moved in, I was holding my own in the household battle of clutter. The mister and I are not tidy people by nature, preferring to put things down rather than put them away, but the house never got too terrible. (My friend Kate is all, “It did too get terrible, you pig, I had to sit on my hands every time I came over to keep from tidying up” and she’d be right, but she has a much lower tolerance for grossness than I do. It comes from having brothers.) I developed a system. When the house got to be too pig-sty like, I’d pick up and put away all my crap and I’d stuff all the mister’s crap into one of those Volkswagen sized Rubbermaid totes, set the tote by his side of the bed, and leave it for him to deal with. I’m pretty sure the he just rummaged through the tote until he found what he was looking for, used that item, and then set it back on the coffee table for me to scoop up again a couple of days later, but the system worked. Then I’d scrub, mop, wipe, and dust until the place at least smelled clean and the worst of the dust bunnies were vanquished.
Now, there’s another man in the house.
And you guys, I am losing the battle. My own tendencies towards untidiness, combined with the mister’s absent-mindedness and messy propensities were bad enough, but throw in my brother, and the house is a shithole. There are dirty socks piled by the door because all three of us like to take our socks off as soon as we come home. The mountain of shoes grows every day. The dishes are out of control. There are ALWAYS whiskers in the sink. I found a half-drunk beer next to the couch this morning (fallen soldier!), leftover from chili and the Twins game last night. My basement smells like boy. The dog is now dragging everyone’s underwear out of their laundry baskets and into the living room. Someone’s half-folded laundry (not mine) is on the coffee table, along with a toothbrush (also not mine). The TV remote is gone forever. There are magazines and books on every flat surface. There are now two Shop Vacs in the house.
And this is on my dining room table, on my pretty white lace tablecloth.
What the fuck is Moog, and why is there a greasy box of it in the house?