Whatever happened to a clean house?

Oh cottage,
why do you betray me,
revealing my clutter,
my lack of time,
my refusal to straighten you?

Once you boasted clean lines,
a dust-free zone,
greeting me with Pine Sol scent,
prompting a smile when I entered.

Last night I saw messy blankets,
unemptied trash bags,
wrinkled clothes awaiting a hot iron,
dishes resting in the sink,
and tears threatened.

I miss your clean version,
the polished version,
not the messy rough draft
with no clear message.
I need an editor for my house.

Your unswept, unmopped floors
embarrass me.
Dust settles everywhere,
and I long for someone else to visit,
someone armed with Pine Sol,
Pledge,
scrubbing bubbles,
bubbles that will clean all,
rinsing away proof of my neglect,
making me love you again.

Fairy Godmother,
I'm waiting;
I have the prince,
the carriage,
the ball gown.
I want the clean house.