... but, would a jury of my peers convict me?

Okay, so, a couple of weekends ago, I had a laundry intervention.

I had gone downstairs in the hopes of putting on some laundry.

The way to the washer and dryer was blocked. A solid wall of piled laundry, laundry baskets, gym bags, blankets, boots, and hallowe'en decorations prevented access to the machines.

I ranted a few minutes, uselessly, then burst into tears and ran upstairs, where I took action. I called my friend K. I begged her to come over and view the devastation.

See, in OTHER people's houses, whenever you go in, the owner says "oh, please, excuse the mess!"

Only, there's no mess.

In MY home, however, there IS a mess.

Of BIBLICAL proportions.

See, Hubby and his two DNA replicants moved in around 13 years ago, and from that day to this, have behaved as aliens occupying my home, heedless of my pleas and protestations. They shrug their shoulders, they roll their eyes, and they use that amazing phrase that solves all their problems for them:

"It wasn't me."

Yeah. Right.

So my friend K came over and surveyed the battleground with me. I asked her one question: "Am I overreacting?"

She stared, slack-jawed for a few minutes before comforting me in her arms and saying, "No, you're not overreacting Deb. You're not imagining it or making it worse than it is. It is catastrophic. No human being should live like this."

I felt an immense surge of relief, and the tears of gratitude flowed faster than the tears of frustration had done.

From there, we went to the living room and called in the troops for a family meeting. We discussed personal cleanliness, respect for ourselves and for each other and for the house. There was whingeing and whining, and a lot of finger-pointing and many "It wasn't me"s... but in the end, rules were made.

From now on, all aliens do their own laundry.

No dirty clothes, and no clean clothes, are to be placed in any shared space.

No laundry can be started without being completed.

No-one is to sabotage anyone else's laundry-in-progress.

I continue to do linens. You should have seen the faces when it was suggested that each of them receive their own selection of towels and sheets! The horror! The humanity! Being adolescents, they're quite comfy with the idea that they will pick up their clothes from off the floor to wear out to school and work, but the thought that they might have to use a damp, smelly towel after their 45-minute showers.... Well, they were very happy to let me continue to do linens.

Buoyed by the success of the laundry intervention, I went through the kitchen and diningroom last week, removing tools, wires, electronic parts, CDs, DVDs, plugs, screws, nails, books, magazines.... In short, everything in the kitchen and dining room now belongs to the category of FOOD, and THINGS THAT GO WITH FOOD, like pots, pans, cutlery, napkins, etc.

So you can imagine my reaction today, when Hubby brought one of his new snow tires and new rims into the livingroom.

I piped up immediately. After all, one must nip these things in the bud!

I said, calmly and quietly, "Are you intending to put the tire onto the rim?"

Hubby said "That was the general idea."

I replied, "Well dear, the place for that is the basement, not the living room."

Hubby got the mat from the front hall and threw it on the living room rug. "It's okay," he said.

"Um... no it's not, dear," I said politely but firmly. "You have a workshop downstairs..."

"It's not big enough," he said flatly.

"... And there is also a nice clean section of floor in the laundry room, which is also in the basement," I continued.

He replied by throwing a wrench and a long yellow tie-down on the floor beside the tire.

"You intend, then," I said, "to continue to work on the tire, in the living room?"

"Yup," he said flatly.

I got up and went in search of my cell phone, which has a picture-taking function. I took a picture of the mat, tire, rim, tie-down, and wrench in the living room.

A few minutes later, as Hubby was bent over the tire, I took another picture.

I emailed the pictures, with the captions "Yes, he's doing this in the living room," and "Save me!" to his brother and a friend of mine.

I said to Hubby, as he was pounding away at the tire, "You know, I'm pretty sure you brother is not permitted to bring tires and rims into his living room to work on them."

No reply.

I said, "I'm pretty sure my friend R isn't allowed to, either."

No reply. Hubby now stands up and attempts to get the tire to go into the rim by rocking violently from side to side while trying not to fall.

I hear sounds of Stepkid yawning and stretching in her room. "Hey, Stepkid!" I call out. "Come and see your Dad making a fool of himself!"

"Shut up," said Hubby.

"Well, you DID make an appointment for tomorrow, right? And they have all the necessary tools, and you don't? And you have to pay them anyway?"

The reply was a soft growling sound.

"Well then, darling, I think you should stop this nonsense before you fall off and hurt yourself. Put it away, and go do something useful."

No reply, not even a gutteral one.

Stepkid came in to inspect. "What are you doing," she demanded.

"What does it look like?" Hubby snapped at her, stamping his feet on the tire.

Stepkid watched for a moment and then got up on the tire with her father. Instantly, she recognized the futility of the venture and alit. "Forget it, Dad, it's not going to happen," she said, exiting the room.

Eventually, Hubby did get down off the tire, only to try using the tie-down in a different position. I watched without comment as I did my quilting, for about ten or fifteen more minutes. Finally, Hubby got himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He looked at me soulfully.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me do this?" he asked.

"You suppose correctly, dear," I answered. "Put it away. Put it out of your head. You're always complaining you have no time to do anything around here. Well, you have six or seven hours to play with today. I don't care what you do, as long as it's useful and productive! Go fix the shoe stand like you wanted to. Do some laundry if you wish. Build a fire in the fireplace. Vaccum the sawdust from your workshop. Build something. Do some stained glass. Sort your books. Read a book. Have a hot bath. Punch a hole in the wall for the washer's new position. But GET OVER THIS."

I got a glare and a growl.

So, my question is:

Is YOUR husband/father/brother/whatnot permitted to play with tires in YOUR livingroom?

What would YOUR or YOUR MOTHER'S reaction be if your dad/spouse/whatnot tried to do this sort of thing in the livingroom?

And finally,

Would you convict me?