My Messy House

Cleaning the house rates right up there with attending funerals or getting my teeth cleaned, in my books: unpleasant but necessary. It has to be done; I know it has to be done, but that does not mean I have to like it.
I'm not a fanatic about cleaning the house, far from it; I've no doubt that my ever-descending standards would make plenty of people blanche in horror. (And I don't see any of them on the doorstep willing to help, either.) But I do insist on a thin veneer of respectibility that at least gives the illusion that we do not inhabit a toxic-waste dump.
This is somewhat difficult to maintain, given that I live with three of the most determined pack-rats God ever created. That, coupled with the fact that NONE of them have ever put away an item in their entire lives means that I am fighting a not just uphill battle, but a completely vertical one.
Thing 1, who is 13, inhabits a room which appears to have been the scene of an enraged cattle drive. I wouldn't care so much except for the fact that she cannot find anything at all, and the ensuing panic every morning when she cannot locate her backpack/homework/cat is wearing a little thin. I am working on her to realize that the floor is not a storage area.
Thing 2 just seems to need about 75% more space than anyone else. Her belongings are flung far and wide throughout the house, and cannot possibly be stored in her room because it's already full. She has approximately 114 pairs of shoes, and feels no need whatsoever to keep their mates anywhere near each other. Therefore, it is entirely possible to come across any one of the 228 shoes at anytime, anywhere. If a white, patent leather sandal in the bathroom basin is what you need, then I know just the house for you.
The Mister comes by his pack-rat tendencies honestly, because both of his parents are very, very good at it themselves. (Mind you, it's all extremely tidy and neat, and you couldn't fault my mother-in-law's housekeeping even after a concerted effort. She knows exactly where everything is, and if you are ever looking for 12 matching pewter beer steins or 8 clock-radios with the little flipping numbers, she can tell you precisely where to find them: "just look in the top right of the spare basement bedroom closet and they'll be behind all the ball-washers and coffee-makers.") It is a very good thing that he is good and kind and wonderful, because otherwise his tendency to keep every single piece of paper he's ever touched would make me want to strangle him in his sleep.
I'll admit that I'm no angel in this regard myself; I've had to curb my own hoarding instincts myself, but curb them I have. I've realized that you cannot use anything that you don't know you possess, and my life is infinitely easier when I'm not wading through detritus.
A messy house is visual noise to me, and it makes serious inroads on my sanity when the place is a tip. Occasionally, I have to clean it to maintain my equilibrium, and I generally work myself up into a murderous rage when I do it. (I count it as a cardio workout, since I get my heart rate up so high.) Luckily, no one is ever around when I do it, and I've generally calmed down by the time anyone comes home. They are just advised to never, ever look in the garbage bags after I've cleaned. No good will come of that.