One of the "duties" of being a blogger is that you read other people's stuff. You subscribe, you comment. You wish.
Mostly, for some reason, I read blogs about people that have kids or are having kids or want kids. Not that I'm having kids, but I might one day and I'd like to know what people are experiencing with their kids. I subscribe to photography, gardening, and cooking blogs- all of these things I want to be better at. Recently, I've become a fan of the home management/organizing and the "make your whole house pretty" blogs.
That's where the "you wish" comes in. I wish I had a beautiful house filled with beautiful things and a beautiful garden outback. So I aspire. I set out to make my house the cleanest on the block with everything in its place and nothing out of place, fussing at my husband to pick up his socks and throw his used floss away. I plan to toil in my yard raking, burning, planting, and weeding until it is perfect.
I came home from work yesterday with an itch to rake my whole acre yard into one big pile before dark. To make a long story very short, I didn't wear gloves and gave myself a blister and three splinters, one of which hurts so bad it can't be described nicely. My finger is red, swollen, and angry. Much pain.
I'm laid up today. I can't wash dishes, can't fold clothes, I barely washed my own hair and forced myself to wash both dogs, one of which appreciated her washing so much she's wearing dirt on her nose right now! After sitting around all day going stir-crazy I really lost my cool with my bum finger after Boots left for work. I wrote in my notebook, thought about paying bills, walked circles in the house.
Thoroughly aggravated, I set fire to a barrel of sticks in the backyard and then smothered it with leaves. It took the flames a while to grow back and sitting there waiting, I had an ephipany.
I am in such a hurry to fix my house and yard, make everything beautiful! I want everything done yesterday, but there's never enough time. Why can't I be like that fire and take my time? What does it matter that I don't have fresh paint and my carpet is old? Who cares that I don't have a magazine-worthy garden? Nobody comes to visit us anyways so why can't I burn it up slowly, piece by piece?