I love this time of year. I always think THIS is the year I'm going to make those curtains/win the lottery/paint the shutters/wear pants every day. It never is, but somehow this never bothers me that it's not. I keep reading these articles about how Pinterest makes us horrible slatterns who never feel adequate because we haven't actually made our own laundry detergent or have a perfectly labeled basket for every pair of socks. Well, I have made my own laundry detergent, and it sucked the color out of my clothes. I think if you're the kind of person who must decant all dried spices into handmade Egyptian mud canisters decorated by service dogs, you're pretty much going to feel inadequate without Pinterest and Martha Stewart.
My home style can best be described as "there appears to have been a struggle." I love our home, despite the fact I still haven't committed to rugs that didn't come from Big Lots, and, for some reason, each room has approximately three desks. What I need is to find a pin that tells me how to turn desks into comfy chairs. Seriously, let me know if that exists.
We have recently acquired a dog solely for licking plates before they go into the dishwasher. We have a new washer that is the worst. Super Poodle is in charge of prewash because the new dishwasher doesn't have enough water pressure to rinse broth out of a bowl. Plus it runs for like four hours. What is that? Four hours to run a wash, and I still have Cheetos dust on everything.
We have a corner of our den dedicated to junk to be burned in the fire pit. Every now and then I think we should have a better system than a pile, but then I get distracted by the new issue of Living and consider making my own leather purse with gold foil accents. Then I laugh hysterically at myself and turn clothesline into a "gallery wall" for my photos because I'm "too lazy" to go get frames. It's a style I like to call Rustic Sloth.
If our homes are a reflection of ourselves, you can see from mine why my therapist sends me thank-you notes. Sometimes I want antique Swedish furniture and whitewashed walls. Other days, Danish modern makes sense. Early American is always nice, but I do love a good Chippendale sofa. The period I gravitate to most is Found in My In-Laws' Basement. This look starts as soon as you walk in the front door and see where I have painted swatches of four different shades of coral I thought I wanted for the living room three years ago before I decided maybe blue would be better. I guess I could build a frame around the swatches and call it modern art.
This time of year I also always think I'm going to cook really interesting meals on Sundays and use the leftovers different ways the rest of the week. I love reading how these thrifty homesteading mommy bloggers in Utah buy one chicken and use it for a month. The reason I love it so much is that I get so tired from reading about all the prep, planning, and couponing that goes into the process, I get a really good nap in afterwards. Look, I love to cook for the most part, and I'm pretty good at it. But seriously? I don't really need to take the fat from my pot roast and turn it into candles.
Speaking of reuse, I saw — no kidding — how to make a greenhouse out of plastic water bottles. The one thing I am not inspired to do this time of year is to make mirror frames from toilet paper rolls. I have seen how to make animals from dryer lint, turn old Converse high-tops into fingerless gloves, create a chandelier from plastic spoons, and turn old toothbrushes into bracelets.
No, I don't ever get depressed because my house doesn't belong in House Beautiful. It doesn't bother me that I can't make a single hamburger patty last 12 meals. I'm not even worried my pantry doesn't hold an emergency stash of Greek brined anchovy eyeballs, magnolia-infused peppermint onion bitters, or Parmesan-crusted chocolate blue cheese wafers for spur-of-the-moment cocktail parties. I'm not even depressed because I never have spur-of-the-moment cocktail parties. Reading about insane Type A's who drain their own salt-water backyard pond to source their own salt and recycle hair dryers into robot car ice melters makes me feel downright grounded and, dare I say, sane.
Now, you must excuse me. I've just found a recipe to turn cauliflower into beef Wellington and need to get it cooked and into labeled, single-serving containers in the freezer I made from old laundry baskets and dust bunnies.