Ok, I admit I'm hardly an effective housekeeper, but I'm no candidate for Hoarders. My house is lived in, loved in, used, and sometimes abused. I like to think of my house as a living being in a way, an entity on the same level as Moya from Farscape. A living ship that permits our residence within.
In some ways, my house is like an archeological dig. On the surface there is dirt, but as you open drawers and dig in the closets, there are relics and treasure. When something is missing, Mike and I are like Indiana Jones searching the caves (under the bed) for the Ark of the Covenant (the object we're searching for).
The house talks. It groans, it whistles, it even chirps sometimes. And of course, there's George, our friendly house spirit that keeps the cats active and even gets them "talking" sometimes.The house has it's own lived-in feel. It is over 100 years old and has been lived in for nearly every one of those years.
My house has character. Unlike the new box-style houses, each room is slightly off square, the walls are plaster, and the floors all slope gently toward the east side of the house. But it's MY house. I love every crack, crevice, cobweb and closet. Because it's MINE.
From the garden tub to the 6 foot tall windows to the weird passageway from the bedroom to the laundry room, it is a unique and comfy place to live. My friends all joke that my house puts them to sleep, because they relax when they come over. Even though my house is usually a mess, my friends choose MY couch to crash on, my floor lay out on, and my old clunky bathroom to clean up in.
So tell me...why would I ever want my house to be a spotless, pristine wonderland, when it could be all that it is? I'll live happily in my cluttered house with my love, my friends, and even George.
Love and Laughter,
-Kat Lady
The random musings I manage to pull out of my slightly damaged mind. Also, humor may be involved.
