That’s Sorry-Ass Tiny Little First-World Problem.

You know, like “This latte is too foamy!” or “My favorite massage therapist is moving to Tennessee!” (That one’s actually true of me. She was a member of the church and she did it for free/reduced. Sob!)

OK, so this is a rant, not a cry for help. Bear that in mind, and respond (or don't) accordingly.

R and I get into this overwhelmed funk every few months. You know, where the paperwork and the mess and the little niggling crap pile up and threaten to devour us whole, and it drives us bonkers for a few days. It wasn’t so bad BC (Before C), but it’s really nasty, um, AD (After Daughter). We get into this frantic mood for a few days and feel like we will never, ever, ever catch up, or even just get to a place where things hum along.

…I pass by light bulbs that have been burned out for a couple of months, and I know I won’t get to them until I’m literally in the dark, stubbing my toe on things.
…On my way to the washing machine I have to suck in my gut to get past the mountain of cardboard recycling that’s been there for the better part of a year.
…R bartered with one of his clients, trading computer consulting for some simple, affordable interior design tips. Our dining room is littered with bolts of cloth for curtains, a couple of wall hangings, and paint chips… and you might as well hermetically seal the room for all the work we will do on any of those things in the near future.
…Both of our cars have major scratches and dings on them. The body work has not been a priority, but I cringe every time I go out to the garage. Why don’t we just put them up on blocks in the yard.
…That spiky plant along the front walkway? This big stalk thing shot out of it one day a couple weeks ago. I discovered it when it brushed against my car as I was backing out of the driveway. Then it bloomed white flowers. Now the stalk is drooping over a wilting pile of blossoms on the sidewalk. Golly, do you think we should trim it, hmmm?

The big stuff gets done. Our house is sanitary. Basically. And our bills get paid on time. Mostly. It’s the little, annoying, never-ending stuff that drives me around the bend.

Look, I know you are never truly caught up. That’s an illusion. You vacuum the carpets, and the kitty pukes a hairball. You pay the bills and new ones arrive. You get every stitch of clothing washed, but there’s still the clothes you have on—unless you’re hoisting laundry baskets in your altogether, and even I’m not that obsessive. The parade of tasks plods on, world without end. I get that.

But here’s the thing. Hmm. I need a well-chosen movie quote here. Take it away, Crash Davis:

Your shower shoes have fungus on them. You'll never make it to the bigs with fungus on your shower shoes. Think classy, you'll be classy. If you win 20 in the show, you can let the fungus grow back and the press'll think you're colorful. Until you win 20 in the show, however, it means you're a slob.
--Crash Davis, Bull Durham

We are so far from the major leagues. We work, we spend time with our kid, our one kid, and that’s it. We have no extravagant hobbies, no exotic weekend excursions. And yet we still have a million unfinished projects, taunting us at every turn. It’s one thing to live an abundant, colorful existence, and let the everyday stuff go. That’s eccentric. That’s major league. That’s the stuff of mother’s magazines, those chirpy articles that talk about how crazy life gets, and the stopgap measures are always so cute, like “We ate potato chips and Oreos for dinner!” rather than “We lost track of a couple bills and got a big angry notice from a collection agency, ho ho ho!”

No, we’re in the bush leagues with fungus on our shower shoes.

I don’t need perfection, I would just like one area of our life that’s effortless, that sorta sings, in its own way. Like our disastrous lawn care is legendary, but we cook well-balanced organic meals from scratch. Or we never get around to painting the ugly white walls that the previous occupant patched with mismatched eggshell paint, but we get rid of all the junk we don’t have a place for. Or the laundry goes directly from basket to body (do not pass closet, do not collect $200), but we go hiking each Saturday morning. You know?

You do know, don’t you? Tell me you know. Because sometimes I wonder if we’re the only folks who get into these cycles of entropy—not the precious kind, but the real, gritty degradation of matter and energy, the disturbing trend to utter disorder. In the midst of the overwhelmed funk we sometimes feel, and especially in this high-achieving, appearance-oriented neck of the woods we live in, it often seems like everyone has got their shit together but us.