I'm taking a break from cleaning the living room. Even before I left for Atlanta, it was a shambles, and after three days of no mom to regulate clutter ... well, you can only imagine. The kitchen is in good shape, the mud room is the mud room--there is no hope for it--and the children are alive and accounted for, so I have few complaints. But the living room ... sigh.
I stayed with my brother in Atlanta. My brother is a great guy, smart, funny, an all over decent human being, but he is not known for being Mr. Fashion Sense or Mr. Stylin', and never has been. So how amazing is it that he married one of the most stylish women in all of Georgia? My sister-in-law is an interior decorator, and is quite fabulous in general. Her style--both personal and professional--is a mix of classical and funky, and it's always fun to visit her house and see what she's been up to.
Of course, when I get home, my own interiors seems sadly ... I don't know, plain, uninspired, pedestrian. The great news is, my SIL gave me a ton of fabric remnants--beautiful, beautiful fabric, some of which cost hundreds of dollars a yard (her clients are incredibly wealthy)--for me to use for pillows and curtains. Wasn't that nice? Of course, once I start throwing high falutin' pillows hither and yon, I'll start feeling like all the furniture needs to be high falutin', too, and we'll end up in the poor house.
One of the great things about staying with my brother's family was that they have a dog. It occurs to me that hotel rooms should come with lap dogs. In the year and a half that we've had Travis, I've become accostumed to a certain amount of canine love every day, and I really miss it when I travel. But staying at my brother's, I had Bo, the Bichon Frise, to love and be loved by. I took him for walks and scritched him behind his ears. I felt slightly disloyal to Travis (who the Man said was very mopey without me), but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.
By the way, I'm writing this in my sweats. I haven't hung out in sweats since college, and now I'm wondering why. I mean, this is the life. Pure comfort. But I fear that hanging out in sweats when you're 45 is akin to standing atop a slippery slope. Sure, right now I don't wear my sweats outside of the house except to walk the dog. Soon, though, I could be wearing sweats to pick up Will from school (other moms do it). Next, I'll pull on my sweats when it's time for teacher conferences and PTA meetings. Before you know it, I'll be shimmying into my sweats for shopping trips. Church. Evenings out with the Man.
Hmmm ... maybe I ought to go put on some jeans. Just to be safe.
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