Lent ended last week, and while I’ll be the first to tell you that I am a horrible Catholic, I really failed quite spectacularly at my 40 days and 40 nights of sacrifices this year. I got about two weeks into it, and then the bottom fell out, and it was pretty much like, “Jesus who?” It’s sad, because in the past I’ve done so well at sticking to my Lenten guns. For the love of all that is holy, a few years back I gave up pizza for Lent. PIZZA. And I made it through even though I probably would have traded my own mother for a slice of sausage and mushroom two days into the Lenten season that year. But this year pizza wasn’t even part of my sacrifice and I blew it. I mean like flagrant disregard for any promise I made to myself and the holy trinity. So the upshot is I’m probably going to hell, which is unfortunately because I hate being hot, but I am planning on bringing some marshmallows and hot dogs, so hopefully that will make it a little better.
I’ve spent a goodly amount of time in airports lately which means there has been an inordinate amount of people watching time, and I have discovered that there seem to be a league of people out there sporting fanny packs un-ironically.* Men and women alike, young and old.
And you know? I support this. I support this because my posture is awful from years spent toting multiple heavy shoulder bags hither and thither. Granted, I could just learn to pack lighter, but as that is incredibly unlikely, I think it’s just best if we all collectively agree that yes, fanny packs ARE un-ironically stylish, and bring them, well, not back into fashion, but into fashion to begin with, and admit that we were hasty with our scorn of them, kind of like how we all hated One Direction for Story of My Life because there is no way a boy band that has the collective age of twelve has any story to tell except “I’m not even legal to drink in the States but I have a zillion dollars,” which is just a bragging story and not one anyone wants to hear and then after hearing the song 5,000 times you find it’s actually quite lovely and moving and suddenly you know all the words and are harmonizing with the song while you’re putting on your mascara while getting ready for work.
Fanny packs. They are where it’s at.
I get that when you have animals, you are bound to have some extra messiness in your life. And I’m okay with that. We do, as I like to say, live in an Animal House. These insane beasts rule our lives. They take up precious space in our already crowded bootbox of a condo with their food dishes and their toys and their tumbleweeds of fur that roll across the hardwood floors no matter how big of an air filter we have (currently one the size of a toddler) or how many times a week I sweep (which would be several).
I’m okay with all of this, and I’m okay with the fact that thirty seconds after Swede and I finish cleaning, the house is a mess again. Because as soon as we finish cleaning, THAT is the time the cats decide they want to be awake for their 1 hour a day. Or the dog starts doing hot laps around the living room, couch cushions and glasses in her way be damned. It is inevitable that my home will never look like Martha Stewart’s. Or like something out of Property Brothers. And the reason I’m telling you guys this is because if you ever come for a weekend visit, you should know this about our abode: It will be never be neat. Clean, yes, but neat is highly debatable. It’s a loving home, it’s a fun home, there is always delicious food and wine, and we have a terrific balcony.
But there are beasts.
And beasts are not everyone’s cup of tea, and for that reason, I promise we will always try and live near nice, affordable hotels, and I will absolutely not be offended if you have no desire to stay overnight with us. In fact, I might actually stay in your hotel with you, because the cats like to yell in the morning. A lot. And for once, just once, I would very much like to give my alarm clock the chance to do its job, rather than the cats beating it to the punch.
*Why anyone would want to be ironic about this, I don’t know, but it happens.