I wish I was a neat freak.  I wish I kept my home company ready at all times.  I wish I felt the compulsion to live that way.

Instead, I get lost in books and baking.  I loose track of time crocheting blankets and walking around the lake.  My home always needs a bit of attention, more than I have energy to give.  I have bobby pins and books hoarded around, you never know where you will find more. I never remember to make my bed or put away my shoes.  Not a day goes by I don’t trip over some dog rope chew or accidently set of a squeaker toy.

When I look at friends places, I see how they clean better than I do.  Their piles of odd mail pieces or stacks of magazines don’t look nearly as offensive to the eye as mine.  Sure they may have a little dust in places or stray hairs in the sink.  But that doesn’t seem as unkempt as my place.

But what if, to them, their house looks like mine does to me?  That all they see is the spot they missed sweeping and not the shiny coffee table with perfectly arranged coasters? What if I don’t see the mad scramble they had to get rid of the everyday things, for now?  How when I leave, all sorts of stuff will come out of hiding?

More importantly, why do I even feel like I failed just because my house can’t be photographed for a magazine? Am I really that materialistic? Or do I just absorb these ideas from TV and ads as to how I am supposed to keep my home? Should I really be OK with giving up free time, sleep, and hobbies just so I can have a spotless floor and sparkling bathroom?

Life is like an Escher drawing, no two people look at it the same way.  Maybe I should just try and make my view one that makes me happy, and not tailor it to everyone else. I will keep my “messy is more” chic look, because at the end of the day there are more important things than a pristine home. Like fur kid snuggles, and girls nights, and making people happy with cake.

Love and clutter,



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