Slobberino

I'm a slob. Everyone in my family is a slob, even my three-year-old daughter Esther. "I like messes," she proclaims and then dumps buckets of toys on the floor.

I wasn't the neatest person when I met my husband, Kevin, but he was the king of all slobs, and he sucked me into his world of extreme sloppiness. When we first started going out, Kevin was living in an attic bachelor pad carpeted with a three-inch layer of dust bunnies. His apartment hadn't been vacuumed in three years. If you put something on the floor and then picked it up, it was covered in dirt. It was kind of like the Munsters.

His toilet was coated with three years worth of shit. It was black inside. I'm not kidding.

His sheets were brown, although, I don't think they were meant to be.

This was even too messy for my taste.

I borrowed a vacuum from the Wongs, the family downstairs. I actually scrubbed three years worth of shit from his toilet. Now that is true love. I threw out the neglected can of Progresso soup that sat on his stove for years, covered in a layer of gray fluff.

I bought new sheets.

Wow, what a palace. Actually, it was still a dump. Since then, we've lived in a series of dumps, including our current apartment.

Kevin's home office (which he won't let me vacuum) is still covered in a layer of dust bunnies and when Kevin comes home, he throws his pocket change in the piles of dust bunnies. It's like those restaurants with sawdust and peanut shells on the floor.

My son Trevor picks quarters out of the piles of dirt to buy candy and I pick quarters out for the parking meter. It's a festive family activity.

Okay, so it's not so bad a slob. It's actually kind of fun.