But the lack of organization in my kitchen, really, is just another metaphor for how my life has morphed into a flimsy, gaseous cloud of barely manageable chaos. I used to stare at fashion magazines with disgust – “That is so unrealistic,” I would complain about the airbrushing. “Nobody’s skin looks like that.” Now, I throw home décor magazines across the room in frustration. “Oh, please!” I find myself screaming at the sight of spotless, pile-less counter tops. “Nobody’s kitchen counter looks like that!” I hit rock bottom the other day when I picked my poor dog up from the groomer’s. Upon receiving a lecture on how I really need to make more regular appointments for her, I found myself apologizing, almost in tears.

“I’m so sorry,” I explained, trying not to bust out into a full on sob. “I just can barely manage myself and my kids and my job, and the piles, you should see the piles. The dog is just….” I let my sentence trail off so as not to offend her with it’s inevitable conclusion, and she (who is clearly childless) got offended anyway. As the words were coming out, I wondered how this teary, unorganized, unfit dog owner woman could possibly be me. But it is, and short of running away and starting a new life somewhere in a remote, undisclosed location, there’s simply nothing that I can do about it. I think it’s time to break out the PBK catalogue. I definitely could use the release.