Is Anyone Else a Messy Cook?

I'm not quite sure why, but I have never been the most organized, precise, neat and tidy type of person. I've realized this to be a somewhat insurmountable flaw in my character that I can't seem to conquer. Uncertain whether it began during the nurturing era of my life when my parents methodically tried to teach me to be self sufficient and uncluttered. They certainly kept me in line with my share of daily household chores. I'm more convinced that maybe it's the artistic side of my nature. I simply don't mind having a gallon of paint splashed all over a pair of jeans and shirt (I actually own a couple pairs like that...and LOVE them) or writing a memo in ink on the back of my hand because I found myself lacking a scrap of paper. I've no quandaries about allowing myself to leave the house with tousled hair, no makeup, sweats, t-shirt, and admittedly, no shoes (or socks for that matter) to set myself out to run a quick errand. Things of this nature straightforwardly don't bother me. If anyone has seen my studio, closet, or laundry room they'll understand I try; I am just an unsuccessful wanna-be somewhat obsessive compulsive. I figure if I were I might accomplish an art to keeping house.

My point being that although I attempt and make plans daily to make dinner quickly, orderly, and efficiently, I inevitably make the most disastrous mess while cooking. I have no idea why this is. For example, just last night as I mentioned in the recipe to the left, we made shredded sauteed zucchini as a side dish for the Petra sole we prepared.
Every time, and I do mean every time I went to stir, swirl, shake, or toss the zucchini a heaping spoonful would slosh over the side of the skillet spilling onto the stove and floor. By the time it was finished cooking I was afraid that there would be none left to serve. Then, after all of the drama thus far, as I dished the squash into a serving bowl a large spoonful jumped the bowl entirely and landed directly on my bare foot. Instinctively I shook my foot quickly because the vegetable was piping hot from the scalding pan. Accordingly I now had zucchini on me, the floor, the stove, the pan, and finally the serving bowl.
Not only that, as I surveyed the scene the realization that I had used every pot, skillet, dish, utensil, and any other cooking item known to me, my flaw came to fruition as I stood amid the fury of kitchen purgatory.

Oh, and today I have a nice blistering burn on my foot! The kitchen can be a very dangerous place.
Is it just me?