On my fourteenth Fun Monday, I teach you one big difference between Doug and me
AOJthelurchers wants us to show the world our bedside tables. I'll go her one better: I'll compare my bedside table to my husband's.
My side: clutter
Doug's side: clutter-free
But i can explain. I think.
I'm blaming my childhood.
I grew up in a house with 11 other people. things went missing constantly, and the rule of survival was, basically, finder's keeper's.
I think it was then that i developed a compulsion to keep all my valuables close at hand and in plain view.
This bedside table, i'm sad to tell you, is not the only place in the house where you will find these teetering stacks of stuff that could just as easily be put away. (Here, you see books, and unguents--burt's bees for my feet, and chaptsick, and hand lotion, and, oh, look, there's a little shelf underneath, with even more books, and another tube of hand lotion.)
Elsewhere in the house you will find books and piles of gloves, books and piles of magazines, books and piles of spare change, books and piles of dog-walking-in-cold-weather clothes, and, in the kitchen, books and piles of potatoes.
OK, i'm kidding about the potatoes, but you didn't think i was, did you? It's that bad.
Like i said, i blame my upbringing. There were four of us girls in one bedroom when i was growing up. Can't you just picture the small me, hoarding my treasures, staying awake all night to guard my things against my marauding sisters?
Doug, on the other hand, had his own room as a child. It is to his enormous, enormous credit that he--a naturally neat and orderly but by no means annoyingly compulsive or fastidious person--has learned to co-exist with a hoarder-scatterer-pile-maker like me.
This doesn't mean it doesn't bug him; I suspect it does. I think it means it's just too much trouble to boot me out. He'd be stuck walking the dogs alone. Given that option, a little clutter isn't so bad.
I'm blaming my childhood.
I grew up in a house with 11 other people. things went missing constantly, and the rule of survival was, basically, finder's keeper's.
I think it was then that i developed a compulsion to keep all my valuables close at hand and in plain view.
This bedside table, i'm sad to tell you, is not the only place in the house where you will find these teetering stacks of stuff that could just as easily be put away. (Here, you see books, and unguents--burt's bees for my feet, and chaptsick, and hand lotion, and, oh, look, there's a little shelf underneath, with even more books, and another tube of hand lotion.)Elsewhere in the house you will find books and piles of gloves, books and piles of magazines, books and piles of spare change, books and piles of dog-walking-in-cold-weather clothes, and, in the kitchen, books and piles of potatoes.
OK, i'm kidding about the potatoes, but you didn't think i was, did you? It's that bad.
Like i said, i blame my upbringing. There were four of us girls in one bedroom when i was growing up. Can't you just picture the small me, hoarding my treasures, staying awake all night to guard my things against my marauding sisters?
Doug, on the other hand, had his own room as a child. It is to his enormous, enormous credit that he--a naturally neat and orderly but by no means annoyingly compulsive or fastidious person--has learned to co-exist with a hoarder-scatterer-pile-maker like me.
This doesn't mean it doesn't bug him; I suspect it does. I think it means it's just too much trouble to boot me out. He'd be stuck walking the dogs alone. Given that option, a little clutter isn't so bad.
