Mysteries of domestic demise

This is my evil-eye beam of disgust at those "Improve-YOUR-life-today! (gleaming twinkle smile here)-experts" ... you know the ones, the ones who claim that making a to-do list and crossing off your accomplishments will make you feel like a real winner .... the ones who insist that keeping a spotless, peaceful home is just a snap away.

Well I've got news. If you've come to my house and found it spotless, it's only because the situation had become so desperately exasperating that I had to invite someone over just to force a mad-dash "quick! Clean before the guests come" manuveur. I don't know how it happens, really, seeing as I rarely seem to be home these days. I leave for a trip, cleaning right before I go, only to return to find half an inch of dust blanketing all that is visible and dust-bunnies that are practically big enought to be dust RABBITS happily frolicking beneath my bed, windows that have collected enough grime to nearly convince you that everyday's a grey day.

And YES, I do make to-do lists, thank you very much, but I have to admit I've become a WEE bit disenchanted with the whole gimmick.I mean I do laundry, I cross it off my fantabulous list, pat myself on the back for being such an accomplished woman just like the "experts" say I should and then, by golly, wouldn't you know, six hours later I have another heap of laundry looking up at me forlornly, meaning that it must be AGAIN included on the dang to-do list, to be yet AGAIN checked off ... it's a pointless perpetual circle, a real mystery of domestic demise.

Then there's the beast in the drain. Ladies, I know you've met this one. You know, the one that engorges itself on loose hairs that have escaped your attempts at early capture until it has finally grown so large that you stand in the shower and, by the end, might abe slightly confused as to whether you're actually taking a bath or a shower, based on the water level. If we're talking domestic mysteries, this one's gotta be at the top, right there alongside the habitual laundry room disappearance of socks. I've shoved forks, knives, and unwilling fingers down that black hole and still come up with nothin'. While I'll pass on the cheesy Ms. Domesticated car-sales-grin advice, I'd gladly hear you out if you've got any advice on mastering the drain beasties ...