Sidetracked, in my own house

Sometimes, I'll be going from point A to point B in the house, and realize 15 minutes later that I am not in the place I was supposed to be.

Gotta go to the bedroom, to get (whatever); head down the hallway; oh, look there's that glove that Ben lost; pick it up, take it to his room; oh, my god, look at how much laundry didn't make it into the hamper (ha! don't they know that soon, the decree will read that anything NOT in the hamper will not be washed?), pick it up; hey, how did that fall out of his bookcase, oh, there's a pile of crap up here, start to straighten it out, gotta throw this away, head to kitchen to trash can; damn it, who left their glass conveniently turned on its side? grr, grit teeth, stop and clean up mess, need to change tablecloth, notice spill made it to tile, get paper towel and sop it up, hey, this is sticky, go get cleaner (oy, who really wants to mop?) and spray away to clean up; notice another spot, spray it, clean it, and another, spray it, clean it, oh hell, go get the Swiffer (greatest invention ever, really) and broom and sweep/mop anyway, because the floor resembles the floor of a bar after closing time... okay.  Wait, didn't I head to the bedroom for something earlier?

What was it again?

I swear, I do this all day long.  I practically need to write down what I need in the next room or I won't remember it. 

Today, I went on a cleaning-the-counter spree that involved the paper shredder, two (okay, let's be honest here, three) trash bags, and more than a few Lysol wipes.  I even was motivated to ~gasp with me~ attack the junk drawer (hey, you know you have at least one) and now, I can open it without shame. 

"What wild hair crawled up your ___?", Mr W says to me when I brag about my OCD to him late in the morning when we were touching base (he's working late today).  "Look, it's your fault, Mr. 'how-much-would-you-be-willing-to-pay-a-cleaning-lady.'  Yeah, you start talking like that, and I start cleaning the house.  Talk about reverse psychology."  Click. (ok, I said bye first, I'm not the type of chick that hangs up on  people..)

Yes, he did say it.  One day last week, he asked me how much I'd be willing to shell out for someone else to come in and clean.  On the one hand, I can see that he probably wants to help me out, because really, it's a lot of work just taking care of our brood, and I am not gonna stay up late cleaning toilets (haha, not when I can do this instead ;) right?) just because.  On the other hand, I'm annoyed, because I feel that on some level, he is being a bit critical that things are not up to his standard. (But, in his defense, he does help out more than most.)  So.  I've decided to go room to room over the next week or so and see what's what.  I know that I in no way will be finished in a week.  And in my defense, it's not like we live like freshman year frat boys.  Dishes are washed.  Laundry gets done, there are no science experiments in the fridge (today), and you don't need to beat a path with a machete to get into the kid's room...although you may have to make a sweep every now and then with your foot to move the inevitable small piece of Lego or whatever.  I could stand (ugh, ugh, bitch, bitch) to vacuum and dust more.  And definately stand to toss some toys (but I can't bring myself to do it when I know I'm gonna get busted by the kids next week when they are looking for whatever is gone.)

So I am try really hard to remove the note of sarcasm from my voice when I tell him that we will be cleaning before the cleaning lady comes, because that's what happens.  And he either realizes that I'm a bit pissed, or has shrewdly manipulated me to get on it myself, and has not mentioned it again.

I think I know where I'd like to accidentally place a Lego or two that he'd be guaranteed to notice. 

Let the cleaning lady get THAT, buddy.