Clean House, where have you been all my life? I’m talking about the TV show, not the place I live. I just happened to catch the show for the first time today as I was folding massive piles of clothes. I thought watching a show called Clean House might inspire me because I hate hate hate housework.

OMG, I love this show. It’s got everything I want in TV, which is basically the opportunity to revel in the problems of others to make myself feel better. In case you haven’t seen it, a family writes in to the show and asks this group of “house cleaners,” which are actually professional comedians in real life, to come over and clean up their horribly messy house. The family gets to spend the night at a plush hotel while the TV crew cleans up the mess.

I had about one-and-a-half episodes worth of clothes to fold, but even having only watched that much, I can tell the show really needs a different name. It should be called, “What the Hell’s Wrong with the Mama?”

These families let things go waaaaaay too far. It looked as if loads of laundry had exploded all over their houses year ago, and now stuff was growing out of it. And who’s fault was that?

I should be ashamed of myself for pointing a finger at the women in the families. There were other people who lived in their houses and were perfectly capable of cleaning them. But no, I blame the moms. For the same reason I blame myself when my house looks like crap. Because working or not, healthy or not, energetic or not, we’re ultimately responsible for what goes on within our walls.

God, it’d be fabulous if a TV crew came over and cleaned up my big fat mess. But then, I’d have to endure the psychoanalysis of all the other Clean House viewers, shaking their heads while they’re sitting on their couches, folding yet another load of laundry and feeling smug because at least their clothes were in a NEAT pile.