My mother's house was always spotless. No dust bunnies to be found, no dirt tracked in from the backyard. It was clean, clean, clean. Except for my bedroom.

My poor anal-retentive mother could not open the door to my bedroom without getting tachycardia. It upset her to no end that she had raised a slob.

And it wasn't just my bedroom. I always looked unkempt. No matter how many times I brushed my hair, it did what it wanted. Barrettes and hair ribbons would not stay in place. My school uniform always looked untidy, despite the fact that Ervina had ironed it with starch the day before. My blouse would untuck itself, and my shoes would be scuffed before I got out the door.

The only really bad grades I got in grade school (besides gym, I am a klutz), were in penmanship. My handwriting is illegible even to me.

I always had skinned knees and elbows, and I tore many a party dress before I got to the birthday party.

Well, I'm 50 years old now, and nothing at all has changed.

I try to be neat, but there must be some dusty, untidy demon that follows me through life. My cubicle at work is the messiest cubicle in the company - way back when I was at Sprint, one of my old bosses would make me move cubicles every 6 months or so because that way, I would have to clean up the old one.

Business clothes look odd on me - I am much happier wearing more Bohemian or ethnic clothing - they fit my image as something of an oddball.

Thank God I met John and married him. We are kindred souls when it comes to neatness. We can both try like hell, but things just won't stay put. John doesn't mind that I am a cluttered person, because he is probably even worse than I am.

But maybe a combination maid, laundress and window cleaner would help a little.