House Beautiful

The pest control guy came this morning. I forgot he was coming to do the annual house inspection. So I was still in my pajamas and checking emails, socks on my feet, hair awry, with a half finished cup of tea still trying valiantly to wake me up completely to face the day.

It wasn't so bad until he walked into the master bedroom. Half made bed, a regular "Fibber McGee and Molly" style closet. You know the kind so stuffed full of...well, stuff... that you have to be prepared for an avalanche of sorts when you pry it open. Because not only is it full of clothes, but it's the place I shove miscellaneous stuff when surprise visitors arrive. To be honest, I think there's still some stuff back there from past surprise visits. But I forgot about the pest control guy. And of course, he had to check all the spaces, including the magic exploding closet. Oops.

Okay, so I'm no Martha Stewart. I have a small embroidered wall hanging in the hallway that says, "A clean house is the sign of a wasted life" and I'm sticking to that sentiment. I'm not obsessive. At the end of my life I don't think I'll be saying, "Gosh, I wish I had polished those tiles more." One has priorities. Mine is not making sure some random photographer from Better Homes and Gardens can drop by and do a stunning photo spread any time of the day or night. Good luck. Although I do usually have fresh flowers on the dining table. (Let me just move the newspapers so you can see them.)

My house isn't dirty. It's lived in, but healthy. It has character. It has life. It has less than optimal storage. And two dogs who think they own the place. And a husband who has no concept of 'a place for everything and everything in its place'. Which is why we resort to the occasional reshuffle of stuff into the nearest closet before we open the front door to visitors.

However, once visitors arrive, there is good conversation, laughing, coffee and munchies, and hospitality. There are friendly dogs who enjoy a good throw of the tennis ball or a Scoobie snack. One of them even does doggy tricks; he just learned to moon walk. There's the sound of jazz or Hawaiian slack key guitar from the stereo, paintings and photographs on the walls, posters from past shows and Fringe festivals. Occasionally, there is the aroma of fresh baking. It's a home.

If you're interested in white glove inspections, this is probably not the place for you. Perhaps a visit to the nearest hospital, where instead of the sweet aroma of banana bread baking, you can inhale the sharp tang of bleach while you admire the precise hospital corners of the bed sheets.

So as I wave goodbye to the pest control guy and make my way through the dog fur tumbleweeds that need yet another quick vacuum, I polish off the last of my tea and feel lucky to have this sometimes untidy but always loving home.

F*** Martha Stewart...this is living!