cleanliness is next to... what now?

Hi, hello.

I should first and foremost state for the record, that I, Elizabeth C. Moss... am a mess. In a lot of ways, but for right now let's just focus on the fact that my room could have a disaster rating and that I'm not actually sure where my keys are.

I live with a boy now. I know, whoa.... slow down, lady. I should preface that with: he's not my boyfriend. Actually he's my roommate's boyfriend, but my roommate's moving out, so soon it'll just be Scott and I. Roomies. Soon to be besties... probably.

I've never lived with a boy, other than my dad, but from what I've heard about them, I imagine myself completely prepared. Other than my love for sparkly things, twinkly lights, Mark Sanchez (in more of a fantasy way than a fantasy-football way...) and purple, I pretty much am a boy. I, like them, am messy and completely worthless when it comes to organization and general household cleanliness.

What? Is this way of thinking archaic? Perhaps unresearched/stereotypical? Whatevs. So what if it comforts me to believe that half of the population also hates to make their bed... In all honesty, most of my guy friends are fantastically neurotic when it comes to household chores. Bravo! Good for you! You'll make a fantastic house-husband some day and your wife probably won't leave you in 35 years because she's tired of cleaning up your shit. And that's nice.

I will not be one of those cleaning wives...  so I figure I better make enough money to hire a maid, laundress and cook. Come to think of it I wouldn't mind a chauffeur, either, as I like to drink and also like to go places that are maybe not within walking distance...

I buy planners. I buy bookshelves and hangers and I'm pretty sure I've invested in more than my fair share of laundry accoutrements and Windex. I think I own a vacuum, or at least a Swiffer thingy. But do I use any of these things? Not on your life, sweetheart.

I am THE.MESSIEST.PERSON.EVER(other.than.Lawrence.)

I don't put things back. In general I don't really care when items are out of place. I take my earrings off and literally just throw them toward where they 'go'. How many earrings have I lost this way? Fifty-leven, I'd reckon. (What? I'm listening to some Usher. Inspiration can come from any number of sources, my friends...)

I leave cupboards open, pillows strewn about and my bed looks like it's been through gale-force winds and tornado-like conditions every time I roll out of it- which is almost always after my seventh press of the snooze button, mind you. I think vacuums are kind of frightening and I'm fairly certain the thought of 'tidying things up' is the work of the devil.

I've always been this way. My mother thought I'd grow out of it, or that one day I'd welcome the responsibility of keeping things neat and clean. She hoped and prayed that my messy ways would fall by the wayside. They did not. When I was younger I was forced to clean my humble abode once or twice a week as I had an uncanny knack for fucking shit up just about the second I walked in a room. I'd start cleaning and then conveniently fall asleep. Hours later I'd wake up, shove stuff in the closet or under the bed, and move on with my life.

For the people who've either had to live with me because of relation, or that have been tricked into it because of my ever-present allure, I should formally apologize. I especially feel sorry for Maci, because she's lived with me the longest and I'm sure she sometimes wants to strangle me while I'm fast asleep in my always-unmade bed. But, she puts up with me because I'm just so darn cute. And I have lots of DVDs and sometimes I bring home wine and other treats. I'd show pictures of my room, but frankly, I'm a tidge embarrassed. I live like a newby-hoarder with less order and a propensity to just throw shit around.

And while I'm in confession, I should admit that it's not just in housekeeping that I'm less than good. I don't really keep a set sleeping schedule, instead deciding to sleep and wake whenever the hell I want. I don't grocery shop because it's not very fun and I don't fancy cooking much... I'd rather live on Starbucks and meals I can bum off my parents and random passersby.

I will be a terrible wife and an equally inept mother. I'm selfish and idiotic with my money and my time, and when I try to be domestic, things get weird.

Case in point: A few weeks ago, my roommate(s) and I decided to make dinner for some friends. We were serving fajitas and like a good little housewife who didn't have to work that day, I was in charge of two things... the drinks (natch, I got that shit) and marinating the steak.


This is simple! Cut up the meat, put it in the marinade, and refrigerate. Shiiiiiiit, I got this on lock. Also: I'm kind of thug when I think myself competent.

It was about four seconds in that I realized something... our knives fucking suck. I may as well have been slicing the flank, or whatever it was, with a wet envelope. Worthless. As I finally made a cut, I looked closely at the steak. It was pink... but also, in the middle... not as pink. It looked gross.

And then I started to panic.

I texted my Dad. And my boss. I sent them photos, saying, "Is this normal? Will I die if I eat this??"
 It should be mentioned that I have a cloying, unnatural fear of dying in an embarrassing way... ie; by tainted food... or poisoned gatorade... or being trampeled in a mosh pit at a Justin Beiber concert...

I waited for their response, and as the minutes, nay, seconds, ticked by, it became clear to me that the steak was POISONED and that I had to get rid of it. I uncerimoniously threw it into the trash, tossing the knife into the sink, along with anything else it had come into contact with.

I scrubbed my hands for about 4 minutes, and then thought out my next move. I'd go to the store, I'd get some new meat, as well as some bleach. I thought about getting a new knife, too, but how serial-killer-esque would that have looked?!

Back from the store 20 minutes later, I set upon sterilyzing the entire kitchen. And then the bathroom, because I washed my hands in there. And then doorknobs, and the counter, and the trash can and ANYTHING ELSE I'D EVEN LOOKED AT.

You may think this a bit out of step with my whole, "I'm the messiest person ever..." thing I was talking about earlier. While the two do conflict... I get really scared about food germs and tend to overuse Clorox products every time I cook (which is almost never...).

After I had properly disinfected all surfaces with three times the recommended amount of bleach, I started in on my task of creating a fantastic meal. I sawed into the new steak with my sterilized-yet-still-dull knife and gasped. It looked exactly the same as the poisoned variety I just disposed of! It was a conspiracy! Someone must have gone to several stores in the Tri-City area and laced the steak with strychnine!... or some other poison that I know not of

Just as I was pulling out the trash can, my phone came to life with a text from my dad, saying it was fine. LIES! I figured him a co-conspirator. Then, my boss called, and succeeded in talking me off the edge, explaining that I wasn't going to be poisoned. I took her word for it, simply because she would not want me to die. If I did she'd have to find someone new to work in the tasting room, and good help is hard to find, evidently.

Almost two hours after the marination should have started, I finally got it into the fridge. Maci came home shortly after, sniffing around as she entered the kitchen.

"It smells like bleach in here."

Before she arrived, I'd resolved not to tell her or anyone, about my psychotic break. They don't understand my rampant neurosis, and, I wasted a ton of food and everyone gets touchy about that because of Africa or something. "Right, well... I thought the steak was poisoned..." I said. She raised an eyebrow, probably figuring I murdered someone and then flit about the apartment, bleaching out the blood splatters.

I continued to explain the sitch and she pretended like she understood, God bless her. In case you were wondering, dinner went off without a hitch and the food was delicious. I did get kind of drunk, but that's another story entirely.

I guess maybe I'm just not meant to be normal, in the picking up after myself, doing my laundry consistently, fashioning dinner out of 'ingredients', kind of way. I might be one of those people who has obscene amounts of tchotchkes and worthlessness scattered about in complete chaos. The girl who has to buy new clothes because everything else is crumpled in the closet, or on the floor, or draping the vanity... worn and discarded. The girl who uses her stove as a planter, or something.

Or, maybe I'll grow up someday. I am 24 now, after all.

And I live with a boy.