Nesting, You Are My Bitch

As I sit on the couch with my feet up, I am amazed at what a little hormone induced anxiety can create. To my left are two men from Sears steam cleaning my carpets. To my right is my beloved Josephina, the house keeper that tells me she loves me every time she comes over, the woman to whom I owe so much credit for the strength of my marriage and the shine on my countertops.

Don't get me wrong. I totally pre-cleaned in the hopes that she'd do my laundry. I even organized the pantry and cleaned out the refrigerator. That was all after I made Mr. J move work out equipment into the garage and deep clean the dishwasher.

I did not, however, have much luck with my closet, the bane of my existence. It is filled with beautiful clothes that I just can't find and is the pandora's box hidden behind my put-together exterior. I don't think this will ever change, nesting or not. I am pretty sure a professional organizer would run screaming and I have often dead-panned that I have to climb to the back to find the treasures.

Unfortunately this is a very true statement.

Sometimes I have to get on my hands and knees and dig.

Don't judge.

I've already put the finishing touches on our Thanksgiving and Christmas 2011 menus and helped Jess Jordan with hers as well. I think she thought I was joking. Now she has to fry a turkey and make mashed potatoes with brie and apples.

Jokes on you, sister. Hope you look good in an apron.

There's more to come.

Mr. J has a list.

Mr. J's dad now has a list.

I have a master list.

I really think I'm going to miss this when Olivia gets here.

But, then she'll be here and all will be perfect, whether or not the dust bunnies pile up.