Measurements

So, in true spirit of my inability to be a decent housewife, the house is a mess. It gets this way over time. Cluttered and disorganized, stuff - everything from junk mail to new non-perishable groceries to my latest nail polish color to the husband's shoes to the dogs' favorite chew toy - stuff, multiplies all over my countertops, floors and kitchen table. After a special month of cultivation, like the month of May, the stuff even migrates to my coffee table and couches. I am not a hoarder and I am not in denial of being a hoarder. Its just stuff literally propagates until the chaos of my tiny home affects my concentration and general disposition.

Two days ago I pondered. And I reflected. And I saw. The chaos of my countertops was the direct result of poor storage. My teeny tiny home is only 700 square feet and the builders apparently didn't think closet space a necessity. I had an epiphany. Storage. I needed to better organize my available storage space so that things didn't have to sit on my counter. If there was a place for everything, I could put everything in its place.

My brilliant solution began with a shopping spree. However, shopping as solution is rarely beneficial for me. Though shopping I went! Seven stores, YES! SEVEN stores, seven and a half hours later I had bargain shopped my way to apparatuses, gadgets, gizmos and shelving systems that were guaranteed to organize my space and therefore my life. Right? Well, not so much. I came home after shopping for the equivalent of a day shift, excited to get organizing. Excited to clean so I can clean more. I built one under-the-cabinet organizational unit, just to learn that the five other units I bought were going to be the same 3/4 of an inch too tall to fit in the cabinets. I built the cart on wheels only to learn that it was 1/2 an inch too tall with the wheels on and nearly impossible to move without the wheels on. It was after midnight, I was sweaty, tired and totally defeated, again. My effort was a huge quantifiable fail. There it was in my hand, a white rubberized metal mesh cabinet organizing reminder of just how bad a housewife I truly am. So, I balled. Actually, I wailed. I nearly threw myself onto the floor kicking and screaming in tantrum; I did, however, throw myself onto my bed kicking and screaming in tantrum - I was distraught, not demented.

My wonderful husband, when he finished laughing at my hysteria, calmly walked to me, put his strong arms around me and pulled me tight. He kissed my forehead firmly. He pulled back just far enough to look deeply into my eyes and asked "Why didn't you measure the cabinets first?"