Running Away with the Produce Man

Have you been to a Whole Foods Market?  Until I went home to Denver last month, I had never seen one.  Now, I want to live there.

For those of you who have not had the privilege:

Isn't it gorgeous?  Everything in it's precise place.  Neat and orderly.  Makes me feel almost woozy!

Here's another one:

Sadly, someone with children like mine has been through and messed it up a bit - but it is still pretty spectacular.

Today, I told my husband I was going to run away with the produce man (PM) from Whole Foods.

He said anyone who spent all their time aligning lettuce with a spirit level had a profound mental defect and should be hospitalized. 

This from a man who cannot locate the laundry basket with his dirty socks.  (Hence, my enchantment with the PM.)  My husband of 20 years feels that socks should stay on his feet until his backside hits the mattress.  At which point, they hit the floor and remain there until he runs out and must do laundry.

I didn't know this was a genetic fault until I asked him to move the dresser in our sons' room.  Twenty-seven (27!!?!?) filthy socks later, I am in therapy.  Or, at least, my version of it - a big bubble bath and a glass of sangria. 

I live in a house of slobs.  Three men who have much more important things to do (recode computer games to make them more fun, light saber battles with the midges in the garden, reading LOTR for the 93rd time) than pick up after themselves.  And they really don't understand what my problem is.  They are perfectly content climbing over a mountain of socks to get in to bed at night.  They see no problem with stacking the CD's from the broken holder (casualty of a wrestling match) on top of the dog's kennel and leaving them there for eternity.

It doesn't help that the dogs are all proper Yorkshiremen and have begun shedding as much of their coats as possible because the mercury passed 80 degrees three days in a row.

For 18 years, I have picked up and tidied and generally organized everything.  If it were up to me, we would live in a place that resembled the PM's.  Or at least as close as the Container Store could get us.  But now I am in the chair and it isn't up to me anymore.  God help me, the slobs are in charge of tidy and order. 

And because they are all so adorable when they are sound asleep - I am going to have to learn to let things go and live with it.  Or become a really sloppy (bubble scented) drunk...