I’ve been reading a lot lately, about how bloggers shield a good portion of their personal lives, in order for them to be attractive to vendors and advertisers. Now, while I do censor myself a bit, just in the realm of respect for my family, and also, to not give the satisfaction to certain others who may try to read between the lines, what isn’t really there, I keep it on the lighter side. But, never do I pretend that things are all sunshine and roses. I mean, hello? I bitch about my husband’s lack of skill in the snack freshness department. I’ll often talk about the douchebaggery that is toddler/preschool-hood (see: three year olds are bullshit), the fact that I’m in love with pills, Judy Garland style (and in my defense, yes, I LOVE them, but I don’t sit around in a Valium haze all day), and I will never pass up the opportunity to tell you how much of an idiot or jackass I am.
But that said, I feel like I mislead you. Sure, you all know I’m an anxiety riddled mess, whose brain is twitchy when things aren’t orderly. You see, my house? I am not June Cleaver (though, I so WANT to be June Cleaver, because that woman knew how to get shit done, and still was able to put a roast on the table at the end of the day). So, I wanted to give you a little home tour. What I want you to think it looks like, vs. the grim reality.
Mini’s Room: What I want you to think it looks like: (all are clickable to make bigger, if you really want to go over my neatness skills with a fine toothed comb, you sadistic asshole)
What it probably looks like:
LG’s Room: What I want you to think it looks like:
What it probably looks like:
My bathroom: What I want you to think it looks like:
What it probably looks like (actually, it probably looks worse than this):
The family room: What I want you to think it looks like:
What it most certainly almost always, 99% of the time, looks like:
Not pictured: my office, which usually has books all over the floor, along with other random odds and ends that have no place. Like, headbands, an empty bottle of shampoo, the outline to a set of Rainbow Brite magnets, and an empty bottle of vitamin water, that no matter how many times I throw away, always ends up on the floor in the house somewhere. Also not pictured are all hallways that usually have rogue toys thrown wherever they seem to look good, along with copious amounts of dog hair. My bedroom, and my living room and dining room, which only contain bare bones essentials and are gated off. That doesn’t stop the dust from piling up in there, though.
So there you have it. My OCD tendencies are burning and screaming inside my brain. My house never looked like this before kids, and I know you’re thinking “hello asshole, what did you expect when you HAD KIDS?” I never said I was bright, dudes.
And now, since you know the truth, I want to see a home tour. A home tour of what your house is REALLY like, and so help me god, if your house is immaculate like June Cleaver, I’m going to shank you.