On Being a Slob

Okay, it's time I 'fess up.

You want to know the real reason I haven't been blogging a lot, lately?

It's because my room has been a catastrophe. Clothes folded but not yet put away. Unread magazines stacked so high they were a hazard to anyone who walked too near them or too ungently by. Stacked up mail.

Truly, a pig sty.

And although I'd arrive home from work or whatever social thing I had going just wanting to sit down and blog some thoughts out at you, I just couldn't make myself do it.

I'm one of those fragile artistes who can't work if the conditions aren't right. Everything's gotta be in order for me to sit down and do my thing.

Bullshit, I know, but there it is. And sitting down in the cave that my room had become just scrambled my brain.

Mix this hothouse flower-like sensitivity with the fact that I'm the world's worst procrastinator, and you end up with a recipe for no-blogging ever.

Number One Nephew and his wife (my niece-in-law? That sounds weird. She's my niece) are in town again, staying with Betty Boop and I while they search for apartments. Tonight he needed to use my printer, and the simple search for the printer's installation disk turned into a major campaign to attack the clutter and organize my bedroom.

Thus I sit here before the computer and blog, my fragile artiste's psyche unharried by looming stacks of crap.

Thank god for house guests, huh?