I freely admit that I'm a bit of a clean freak. Although I'm not as OCD about it like I was when my younger two were toddlers. (How many people do you know that vacuum three times a day, for fun?) I let dust be a thing, I mop every other week, I let the laundry pile up for two loads… I used to not be this way. I used to judge the shit outta myself if my house wasn't consistently perfect.

I own very few knick-knacks, I purge fairly often. I'm not a things girl. Don't get me wrong, bare walls make me twitchy. But shelves are for books and pictures. And some more books.

I'd rather spend money on memories than things. (Although I wouldn't turn down a new turntable, books, or camera lens!)

But the one thing that gets to me the most is an unmade bed.

I am a creature of comfort. The first thing I do when I get home is kick off my shoes and put on "comfy" clothes. Part of my comfort thing is being able to crawl into my bed, and not have to fight the sheets and duvet. It's a strange form of lazy?

I've been working a lot of hours this week, mainly so I don't have to use vacation time for appointments. Getting up at 430, getting home around 5. Makes for a tired goddess.

I was so tired this morning that I left my bed looking like this:

Made me a bit sad. Coming home to an unmade bed.