Everything in my house is sticky.

Everything in my house is sticky. Seriously. Two little boys, two big dogs, and a husband who is a lovely person but who seems to have never even thought of picking up a sponge and wiping down a counter (let alone bending down to pick up his stinky socks and putting them inside -- yes, actually inside -- a hamper), all packed into 1100 square feet. Oh yes. Sticky. It's not that I am a horrible housekeeper living in some sort of unhygienic pigsty. In fact, I have learned to clean constantly. I clean the toilet while the boys are in the bath. (Why not? I'm already down on my knees in the bathroom. May as well...) I vacuum almost every day to combat the combined effects of hairy black dogs who shed constantly and small boys who leave a trail of crumbs, juice droplets, used kleenex, and lots and lots of dirt wherever they go. Since this is the only regularly scheduled exercise I get, I just consider it my "workout". I never walk through a room without wiping something off, picking something up, kicking something into a closet, or just putting something into a pile, so it at least looks like it belongs there. I'm not a slob. I really, really, really try to keep up with it, but it's a never-ending battle in a house full of boys. (I am including my beloved husband under the category of "boys" in this particular situation.) So inevitably, I grab a chair to move it -- and my fingers stick to some sort of leftover food, beverage, playdoh, paint, dog saliva, or mystery particle that is stubbornly attached to the back. I reach across the counter to grab my cup of coffee (which I can never seem to get to until it's already turned cold -- what is that all about? A blog for another time, perhaps...), and my sleeve sticks to the smear of grape jelly left behind by the aforementioned husband when he made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for himself and the little guys the night before. I move around the living room, attempting to control the endless chaos by throwing cars, trucks, books, zoo animals, etc., into any nearby basket/container/box/crate/drawer that seems to have room, and everything I touch seems to have a slight stickiness which causes it to cling briefly to my palm before it sails off to a temporary new spot with a bairly discernible "plop" sound as it separates from my skin. Finally, I find a moment that is not taken up by entertaining, refereeing, cleaning, organizing, disciplining, bill-paying, or laundry, and I sink into a kitchen chair, rest my chin in my cupped hand for a moment of peace.....and my elbow sticks to the table. SIGH.