Negative Ned and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days

I like to clean. Well, organize. Actually, I just hate clutter. And I love bins. Once my mom told me that she hopes I never mistake her for a pile of clothes, or she'll find herself in the washer, or in a bin. (My mom also thinks of herself as a cheeseburger when she is in front of polar bears at the zoo; she's a whole different post.)
This morning, after my 2 older girls were off to school, and with 2 of the 3 beds made and 2 loads of laundry in, I joined my husband in the kitchen. I jokingly/passive aggressively call him Negative Ned; love him as I do, he tends to let out exhausted sighs at any cross in the road, and his shoulders drop to nearly 30 degrees when he is faced with a challenge.
 His challenge today was the 'crap' in the attic. He tossed scrambled eggs and cheese heavily down onto raisin bread, and told me that the electrician is coming next week and that the attic has crap in it. I calmly asked him to stop calling it 'crap' as it turns a normal conversation between Damon and Johanna to a stressful one between Negative Ned and Annoying Annette. My "everything's fine" complex took over me and I reassured him that all it is is the dollhouse set from the girls, maybe a few other things, and it will take maybe 20 minutes, tops. This seemed to satisfy him, as he left for work a few minutes later, lunch in hand, shoulders slightly higher and a veritable spring to his step. Oh, Damon, if you only knew what small things I do for you. I am now facing my own challenge of cleaning the attic (with wet hair) before the baby wakes up, all so your shoulders stay at that 90 degree angle I married them for.