What do you think would happen if my husband came home and I said”Hi, honey! Guess what I did today?” and he’d be like “Obviously you didn’t clean the house” and I’d respond “NOPE! I SOLD THE KIDS!”
Do you think he’d be mad? Report me to the authorities? Be relieved because it would mean we’d FINALLY be able to keep the house clean?
I’m no Susie Homemaker. I’m not very organized, and my house will never look like the ones you see in Better Homes & Gardens, but I’m not a dirty person. A little clutter is okay, even expected (what? I’m the ‘artistic’ type- being neat and tidy just doesn’t come naturally to me) but I sat in my kitchen today, looked around, and thought to myself- What the FUCK happened? It looks like a bomb went off in this place. An actual fucking bomb. Smoke damage and bits and pieces of who the hell knows what everywhere. Okay, maybe not the smoke damage, but seriously. This is out of control. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? Where did I go wrong?
WARNING: you are about to see the disaster area known as my house.
The choice at this point was either sell the damn kids and burn the house down, or clean.
Don’t worry. You don’t need to call child protective services. Or Hoarders. Or Intervention. Or the Febreze people. DON’T YOU BRING BLINDFOLDED PEOPLE INTO MY HOUSE! After I took these photos, I was so mortified that I spent the next 3 hours cleaning. It was awful.
I’m not writing this, or showing you this because I’m proud, but because this is real. This is life. Shit just happens sometimes.
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