There is this bizarre dream I have where I have a clean house. And by clean I mean shiny and sparkly and deserving of Martha Stewart praise. My current kind of clean is no dirty laundry and no discernible dog hair, and getting to that point even has been beyond me for a while.
In my dream, there are no dirty dishes on the counter, and the dishwasher is empty and waiting to be used. In reality, the dishwasher is the standing room only cupboard in my comedy club kitchen. In my dream the folding doors in front of the washer and dryer are closed because the laundry is done. The washer is empty instead a fabric petri dish for mold spore colonization experimentation. And the dryer is empty, not a rumpled drum of laundry and laundry sheets entwined in some unholy union.
In my dream the trash can is out of sight. Trash miraculously takes itself out or has the class not to exist in the first place. In my all too real world however, it is missing and a bag hanging from a door knob is in its stead. The bag itself is either overflowing or under-utilized, as the mess trolls in my life think the kitchen counter is a treasure trove and virtual depository for trash, empty wrappers and fast food bags. And meaningless pieces of paper.
Meaningful papers are promptly thrown away; we can't have details like bills and notices getting in the way of our garbage. Our trash is special. I mean, it must be, as it takes up more room than I do.
Yes, inability to concentrate can lead to not being able to clean your house. And being depressed can make housework be less of a priority. But it can also mean that you live with messy people, and that can be depressing too.
Only slightly tongue in cheek, of course.