Dirt Doesn't Hurt

Those of you know that know me personally are aware of the sort of house I try to keep (when the fastidious folks at Martha Stewart Living recently published a special "Best Of" organizing magazine, I was all over it). However, those of you that have known me for a long time (Mom, Dad, brothers & sisters-I'm looking at you) know that, well, let's just say, the old brown mare, she ain't what she used to me.

Sure, I still leave the kitchen spotless before going to bed every night (I mean, really, who wants to start the day staring down a messy kitchen?), and I have maintained a very close relationship with my broom for eons (so much so, in fact, that "broom" was one of Huxley's first words). That said, with Huxley and Hubs in my life, let alone a menagerie of dogs, cats, friends and forest grime, dust bunnies move along like tumbleweed considerably more than they used to and my pantry and drawers aren't quite up to the rigorous organizational standards I've held myself to since I was, oh, 7 years old.

But enough of all that. Life is messy, and glorious, all at once. And that's exactly what I'm chatting about in my column this month in Verve. There might be a bit more dirt on the floors. The basement might exist in a perpetual state of undoing. There might be dust on the ceiling fan blades. But there's laughter coming from the baby, kisses from the big guy, belly rubs with the furry beasts, and so. much. happiness.

*Image by Lynne Harty.