It’s So My Mom.

Image by jdlasica via Flickr

If there is anything I do that is so, so, SO not my mom, it’s how I keep my apartment.

My mother was like the Gestapo of cleanliness. I was a straight A student in high school, but I got grounded repeatedly for leaving the toaster out. My room, though spotless, was “never clean.” People could not come over, and if they did, Lord help me if they sat on the bed. Nevermind that all the chairs were for show, too. We sat on the damn floor, where filthy children belong.

So. I don’t know whether I was always messy by nature, or if this conditioning made me go the other way. The fact remains that I have always been messier than your average bear.

Now that I’m shacked up with a boy who believes that the place to put dirty socks is somewhere around the couch on which he’s peeled them off, there is nothing to keep this in check.

My friends all know about this history o’ mine. Before I moved up and in with the boy, my friend Ronnie imaged our place: it would be littered with fast food wrappers, which we’d frolic around, giggling and naked. Turns out I’m usually the only naked one around here, and nakedness likes company, so I’m less naked than usual. But the wrappers and such, oh yes, that has come to fruition.

Take a looksey. I know I shouldn’t be showing this to anyone, but I have a bad case of verbal diahrrea. Also something that’s so not my mom. More on that soon. First, behold, the mess that is our A-P-T. If anyone knows the next time Oprah is doing one of those messy home interventions, let me know.