It just isn't meant to be...

I am a clothes horse. I own probably somewhere around 250 shirts, fifty to seventy-five pairs of pants, and all of the other things that go with.

There, I admitted it.

I am also incredibly unorganized and, quite frankly, a slob. I don't mind doing the laundry--I hate putting it away. Therefore my bedroom, walk-in closet, and master bathroom (okay, and my living room, office, and kitchen table) all have stacks and stacks (and stacks and piles and baskets and boxes and bags) of clothes. They are EVERYWHERE.

I first admitted this to Molly a while back. I took "before" pictures several months ago, and began a massive purge. At that time, I donated six 55 gallon bags and four Rubbermaid totes to Goodwill, plus threw away a ton more. Then I began the organization.

Until the racks in my closet collapsed.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started.

It took weeks to get the motivation to clean it up enough for Hubs to rehang the racks, this time, he assured me, on studs, as the people who built our house had apparently failed to do.

I've been continuing the purge here and there, the result of some weight loss and a desire to get rid of anything that will encourage me to not stop for donuts every morning as I have been known to do sometimes.

I got some sleep last night and had no plans for today, other than de-teddy-bearing and then monkifying the kids' bathroom, with some fabulous teal paint and all new accessories.

So I decided today? Would be my most. productive. day. EVER.

I started four hours ago with a box of trash bags and all the will in the world. I would conquer it this time. I would no longer have an addiction, I would have a wardrobe. That I could find. That I never had to wonder if it was clean or dirty because it was laying in the floor or under the bills on the dining room table. It was going to be FABULOUS, I imagined.

Then I was going to come here, post those shameful before pictures, and then show you how nice a job I did, getting rid of all the old, ugly, doesn't fit anyhow stuff, and then organizing it all back into categories that make sense, like "pants," "sweaters," "sleeveless shells."

For the first time since we moved in four years ago, you could see the floor of my closet. I began hanging things, in order: long sleeve, short sleeve, sleeveless, work pants, skirts, dresses, jeans, sweaters...more jeans...more sweaters...more sweaters.

I'm sure you can guess what happened.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started. Deja-freakin-vu.

Studs my ass, Hubs. STUDS MY ASS.

I'm trying not to be too dejected. I'm trying to look at this as the opportunity to indulge in another brand of retail therapy--the kind where you go to Lowe's and design yourself a closet system. That you will personally assemble (if you're handy, which I believe myself to be) and that you will personally attach to studs. You know, like your husband would if your husband wasn't MY husband.

My chin is up, my drill is charging, and I'm going to get those after pictures.