Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

It’s been a while so I thought I would write. I haven’t written much lately, at all. I used to be pretty good about writing for my blog. I keep starting things and then, they seem so contrived. Not like you Diary. You not only seem contrived, you are! I appreciate authenticity.

Also I have a new job,  so that takes up a lot of my time. It’s really different to have to get dressed EVERY SINGLE DAY. I’m working at an ad agency in downtown Minneapolis. I do the same thing there that I did at home, plus more copywriting. It’s different in very many ways to collaborate with people again, but honestly, the biggest difference is proximity to other people. For instance, I work in the middle of a very large warehouse space. In the very center. My desk is a raft afloat on a sea of hardwood. I get up from my desk a lot Diary. A lot more than other people, I noticed. I also have to leave my desk and go to the bathroom if I need to pick my nose. And everyone knows when I need to have a cigarette. And people can hear when I get personal calls. So it is very different from working at home. And there is also the commute every day, which I don’t mind at all in the morning, but I do mind in the evening when I am anxious to be home. But in the morning, whichever way I take, be it I94, or the River Road, or down Larpenteur to Hennepin through Northeast over the bring to the warehouse district, I always see the Minneapolis skyline. Sometimes it is silvery, and sometimes it is blue, reflecting the sky, or slate grey when it is overcast, but it is always shiny, and I love it’s pretty wavering reflections and angularity.

Yesterday coming to work I had to stop at the bank, so I was over near Fairview and Grand. I needed a coffee, so I stopped at this place on Marshall, just before you cross the Lake Street Bridge. The Barista pushed a menu at me over the counter, I said,
“I’ll take a small dark roast.”  And he said, ”We don’t have a dark roast, but I’m sure I have a coffee that will please you.” So I said, ”Hmm, I don’t think you understand. I want a drip coffee that is roasted dark. A dark roast.” He said, through a clenched jaw,
“We only have light and medium roasts here, because we like to highlight the flavors of the beans” and here he gestured with a wave of his hand to a sign on the counter, “from Brazil, or Costa Rica.” One of my eyebrows flew up. Oh really? Your coffee beans come from such far away lands? Well, I don’t like the flavors of coffee beans even if they are from Shangri La, I like the flavor of the roast. Is this some kind of new trend? How tiresome. Well, you can’t out snob a snob. I was pulling espresso shots when you were in Montesorri, Dork.
“I’ll take an Americano then, and a brioche.” A brioche. Diary, I have no shame.

So, another new thing with me is that I quit smoking 5 days ago. I didn’t use a patch the first day, but I had 3 pieces of gum that a new paramour had given me when I left his house that morning. (more on him later Diary) He was supposed to quit too. He texted me at 10:30 am: “I caved.” Well fuck all, Diary. I am still doing it, I thought. So I parceled out those 3 little pieces of gum into 6, and made sparing use of an e-cigarette. The kids came that night, and it was about 55 degrees in the house, as the boiler was turned down or something. At the time, I was sure the heater was broken. Diary, it was a bad night. The kids watched TV and I hid under a blanket, drifting in and out of sleep. Then Veronica woke me and I flew into a rage and called the building maintenance. A woman with a southern accent answered the phone and took my request. “Where are you?” I asked her. “In Texas.” Diary, that made me mad. When the maintenance man showed up smelling like cigarettes, that made me more mad. When he didn’t believe me that I had the heat valve turned up, and claimed that it only “goes down to 5″ when I know for a fact it goes down to 1, it made me even more mad, and also I cried. Right in front of him. I yelled at the kids some more. We all climbed in our beds at nine o-clock after I apologized a lot. The next morning I dug out some expired patches, which seem to help a lot.

One thing about quitting smoking I have been thinking about is that while it seems certain I will die, the probable cause of death is more up for grabs. I suppose I could still get the lung cancer, but if I have learned anything, it’s that the universe loves irony. OK, it would be kind of ironic if I died of lung cancer even though I quit smoking, but not very edgy. More just sad. It would be more ironic if I died of, say, jogging. Or juicing. Or celibacy. “She died for lack of sex. We never saw it coming.” I don’t think that happens though. You might think it’s morbid to think about it Diary. But for a long time now, many days when I woke up I would feel a weariness in my lungs and think, “Oh, the cancer. It’s coming.” and I would experience a panicked sense of dread over how and when I would ever be able to knock this stupid habit that is killing me. So now I think, well, the future is wide open! I can die any number of ways! This is not so much comforting as it is oddly thrilling.

Also Diary, I am dating a new man, who I think is slightly crazy, a trait I do not find troubling so much as predictable.  Three out of the last four men I have dated have been medicated for anxiety. Diary, is this representative of the sample, or society at large? Does it say something about me, or dating within my demographic? Or is it just that as we get older, we tire of the old tropes and behaviors we used to use to regulate our moods? It just takes too much energy to drink or smoke away our pendulum swings, or it takes too much of a toll on those around us. I don’t know, I don’t ask too many questions. Except to you, Diary. Because you don’t talk back.

I turned 39 last week. The day before my birthday I felt really blue, which surprised me. I don’t mind so much the getting older, as the “evaluation of life so far”. Milestone counting. But I’m not one to mope, so after work I went and bought a couple of wigs at Variety Beauty Supply on Lake Street. I found a red one I liked so much I put it on in the car on the way home. I also wore it to surprise my neighbor when I went down to put a load of laundry in. I was also doing the dishes, so wearing an apron and barefoot. A few girlfriends were gathered on the patio when I dropped by, and after much adoration of the wig by all parties, my friend Val said, “So… you’re doing the housework in a hostess apron and wig. And you’re barefoot. I need my life to be more fabulous like yours.” I hadn’t realized that I was being fabulous. I wore the wig on my date later, where it was much appreciated. And I wore it to the Monte Carlo, where we drank fancy whiskey and huddled in a booth, just me and my wig and my man. And I think everyone could tell we were fabulous people and good kissers. And I turned 39 there in that bar, across the street from my downtown office, with this good looking man, and this very good feeling about my life that lasted all through the next day.

That’s about it for now Diary. It was good to talk to you. Next time we’ll catch up on the kids, and some travel, and other stuff. But for now, I think things are going just fine.

Keeping Up Appearances

Have you ever received news that literally makes your jaw drop? I have. I was standing in the entryway a few weeks ago, my ex-husband was dropping off the kids, and he asked me to stay behind, he had to tell me something.

“I wanted to tell you before I tell the kids, I wanted you to hear it from me. My girlfriend is moving in,” pause, “…and we’re having a baby.” That was when my mouth fell open. Then it broke into an unwitting smile. And then I just said, “Wow!” I was, I am, truly happy for him. Then the past few weeks fell into perspective; how much nicer he had been to me recently, improved coordination of schedules, a general warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. Of-course, it was the sympathetic-pregnancy glow. That’s fine. Whatever the reason, if he’s happy, I’m happy. But, what about our kids?

I couldn’t say anything until he told them, obviously. When they came back after their next stay with him, I asked them each if they had anything to tell me. “Something interesting maybe?” Blink, blink. “Something about your dad?” Veronica guesses, “I might need new glasses?” I can’t tell if they think I’m not supposed to know, or if they honestly aren’t thinking about it. Out with it then. “Like maybe that your dad and his girlfriend are having a baby, and you’re going to have a little brother or sister?”

“OH YEAH.” they say, and all but shrug with enthusiasm.

We talk about it later, and the response is one of overall enthusiasm, with hints of trepidation. Which seems about right. It’s new to everyone involved, this whole blended family thing. I worry that they won’t want to come over and leave the bosom of a more nuclear family over there, and I worry that they’ll feel displaced when they return to his house. I worry because while I expected my ex to move forward, I sure didn’t know what that would look like. And I worry, oddly, about my perpetual singlehood. I wonder if there is something wrong with me that I haven’t moved on to the same degree. That while I’ve dated on and off, it has never been serious, and I’ve never involved my children.

As far as my kids know, I have been chaste as a nun since moving out. Which isn’t exactly true (ahem, no comments please), but it’s an image I’ve seen no need to contradict. However, recently I’ve started dating a man that I could imagine introducing them to. Not yet, it’s still casual. But one thing I realize is that once they are involved, it won’t be casual. So, I test the waters with hypotheticals. It comes up as we discuss my plans for an upcoming evening,

Me: “Maybe I have a date.” I do.

Ivan, quickly: “No, you can’t date.”

Me: “You’re dad is moving in with someone else and having a baby, and I can’t even have a date? That hardly seems fair.”

Veronica: “Ok, you can go on a date as friends. But just as friends.”

Ivan: “Yeah, no kissing. That’s for teenagers.”

I glean two things from this interchange.

1. I’m so old and mom-like the idea of me kissing someone is totally disgusting.

2. The time to introduce another big change into their life – the idea that your mom isn’t a nun but a sexually liberated and modern uber-woman – is not now.

I ask them regularly how they are doing, keep the lines of communication open, both generally and specifically, about the new situation. They seem to be fine. But sometimes, all you have to do is pay attention. They don’t want to keep me from dating, or kissing people with my old, disgusting mouth. They just want this one thing to remain the same a while longer. Ok, I’ll keep up the nun routine for now.  Kissing is for teenagers and also divorcés whose kids are at their dad’s house.

Sleepover

The sleepover was planned by my daughter Veronica and her friend Tess without much parental consultation. I had flippantly agreed to it last week, now it was an inservice Friday, and I was committed, like it or not. At ten A.M. Veronica was standing in front of me windmilling her arms and telling me she told Tess to be ready at 8:30.

“Eight-thirty A.M.?”

“Yes!” she yells, impatient. I sigh in my well-practiced, beleaguered-mother way and call Tess’s mom. I talk to what might be up to three different children before I hear an adult voice. I have to yell into the phone because she can hardly hear me for the screaming of kids in the back ground,

“THE GIRLS HAVE PLANNED A SLEEPOVER I GUESS?!”

“QUIET DOWN!! What, sleepover? Yes, I don’t care.” I don’t care? OK, looks like it’s on. After lunch. I follow up with a call to a friend of Ivan’s, whose father is happy to bring him over, as he’s working from home for the day. I should be doing the same. Instead, I spearhead a shock-and-awe cleaning attack on the kids rooms. By the time the guests arrive I’m only capable of dazed web surfing interrupted by the fetching of water and snacks, and hourly refusals to turn on the TV. Mid-afternoon, our neighbor girl Fallyn shows up, and the count is up to five. I divide and conquer, keeping the boys and girls separated. As I sit at the computer, for a full half-hour Ivan and his friend battle invisible fire-monsters as ninjas, an on-going narrative that consists mostly of mouth noises. “CHHH!” is an exploding fireball,  ”DSHHHH” is the sound of any ninja movement and “KAPUGH” is, I think, a complex mix of the two.

“Let’s say I have lightening power. PAGAH!”

“Me too, except mine is also thunder strength! BAHHH-PAH! More fire-monsters! If they get on the couch, we’ll lose our powers, but if we can keep them off the carpet, they’ll turn to ice. CHHHH!”

And on it goes. Meanwhile, the three girls are upstairs. They saunter to the stairs and stand lined up like Von Trapp children. In perfect unison they drone, “We’re bored.”

“Go play dolls.”

“We only have two.”

“Make some art.”

“We already did that.”

Veronica offers, “We could read books?” Crickets.

“Why don’t you play office?”

“OFFICE!” They spring up the stairs deciding who will be boss. I played office when I was a kid, using the triplicate shipping forms my mom brought home from the warehouse at work. I don’t know what these kids think happens in an office, but it involves the wielding of clipboards, signing of papers and much knocking on doors. In the meantime, Ivan and his bud settle in to some Power Rangers and yogurt until the boy’s dad comes to fetch him. The girls come down, exhausted from a long day at the office.

“Mom, we want to dance, can you put on some music?” I start flipping through my records. I pull Cyndi Lauper from the sleeve. Tess is at my shoulder and she runs a finger along the edge of the vinyl,

“What is that?” Wow. Welcome to Veronica’s Mom’s House of Obsolete Items and Curiosities.

“This is a record, it’s how we used to listen to music.” I put on Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Veronica flings herself into a dance. Tess bobs uncertainly. ”What is this music?”

“This was my favorite song when I was about your age.” Ivan and Fallyn join in. Soon they are doing ring-around-the-rosie with Ivan in the center. He is smiling hugely and playing air guitar. I think it might be a Peak Experience for him. We follow it up with the Go-Gos while I make pizzas. Fallyn decides to spend the night. I’m chopping vegetables to put on my pizza, and out pull out some mushrooms.

“What are those?” asks Tess. Really? ”Mushrooms” I say.

“Yeah but what ARE they?”

“Um, they’re food. They grow in the ground, they’re fungus.”

“Ringworm is fungus!” Veronica says. I don’t want to touch that. Literally.

“These are for me.” I assure a worried Tess, “You don’t have to eat them.”

While the pizza cooks I set up the kids to watch the Justin Bieber movie Never Say Never. I am excited because I know nothing of Justin Beiber except that he is some kind of phenomenon. Fallyn loves him. She LOVES him. Veronica likes him, but not that way. While I scroll through Netflix titles they discuss the boys in their class they would like if they had to. One of them, Kyle, has Bieber hair. He is unanimously their favorite. Ivan pipes up, “If Kyle were a girl I would marry him.” Aw. I ruffle his hair.

The movie follows the Bieb’s career from his start banging on buckets at age two to his sold-out Madison Square Garden show and ruling of the world. I think I might be getting Beiber fever because I grow increasingly annoyed with their chatter because I CAN’T HEAR WHAT THEY’RE SAYING ABOUT THE BIEB. The kids all have the habit of immediately repeating any line that’s remotely clever or funny or… anything. “He’s like, ‘I don’t think so.’” “He’s like, ‘where are my shoes?’” Tess turns to me constantly asking questions about Justin Bieber to which I have no answers. There is a heated absurdist argument about whether the girl on stage is Miley Cyrus or Hannah Montana which boils down, I guess, to whether or not she’s wearing a wig. By the time he sings the title song at MSG they are whipped into a frenzy, dancing and singing along, and I predictably am wiping tears away for the boy-wonder. Time for bed.

I sequester the girls to Veronica’s room and lie down with Ivan. I read him a stupefying book about dinosaurs, fighting sleep at every page. Eventually, I drift off with him, and wake up sweating a half hour later. The girls are all in Veronica’s bed giggling. It’s tennish.

“Time for bed.” I say. Teeth are brushed while I smooth out sleeping bags on the floor. Fallyn puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to sleep here.”

“Here on the floor, or here at our house?”

“Here. I want to go home.” I sigh. “Let’s get your stuff.” We gather up all six blankets and two stuffed animals and drag them downstairs, and then down the hall to her apartment. As her mother opens the door, she says, “I thought this might happen.” “Sorry!” I say as she closes the door behind her. I shuffle back to our place. I hear Veronica and Tess talking, not in hushed tones, as soon as I enter. I assume my a stern posture and dictate instructions,

“Get in bed, whisper if you must talk, and then close your eyes and go to sleep.” I repeat variations on this theme for the next hour. Finally, at 11:30, I’ve had it. Stern turns to impatient. Tess starts fake sniffling and telling me she can’t get to sleep. I tell her what I tell my children,

“You can’t sleep because you are standing on two feet, walking around and talking. No one can fall asleep like that. Lay down and I’ll rub your back.” She does, and I do, and the fake sniffling increases in frequency. After ten minutes she says, “i never sleep over at friend’s houses. My mom always has to come and get me. One time it was one 0-clock.” Helpful information. “Let’s get your stuff.” Her mom is laughing as she picks up the phone, and says she’ll be right there. I tell Tess about the time I went to a sleepover in the country, and the silence and strangeness of it scared me so badly I pretended to have an allergy attack in the middle of the night, and my mom had to drive fifteen miles to come and get me.

“What’s this?” She says, pointing to a marionette. “It’s a marionette.” I say. “Yeah, but what IS it?’ It’s a puppet, for playing with.” I look around our apartment: antique radios, butterflies under glass, carpeted mushroom foot stool and wool shag rug. (“Is that an animal?”) I wonder what her house is like, but I don’t have to wonder long to know it isn’t like this.

“I’m sorry you have to go Tess, but I hope you come back. Maybe just for a day-over.”

She shrugs and says okay. Then she points to the retro lamp hanging over our kitchen table, ”What is that?” Sigh.

Finally, I crawl into bed a bit after midnight. I realize I haven’t slept there in days, as I’ve been vagabonding in St Cloud for the past two nights. I hadn’t missed it until I slipped in under the covers. Everyone in their own beds at last. Lights out, goodnight.

Listen

The distant murmur and hum of traffic is as soothing as the surf to me. I grew up in a small town, just shy of 7,000 people, in southeastern Wisconsin. Hartford sits at the crossroads of two state highways, and growing up, I lived on each of them.

The first was a large, white two-story corner-house on Highway 83 and Branch Street, just about three blocks from downtown. It had big maples and a screen porch, and at the front roof eave, a bit of red and some humble scrollwork. My bedroom as a child was on the highway side. I used to lie in bed, terrified of the dark, but more terrified of the plaque on my wall from my god-parents with the following poem: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, and if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.” MY SOUL TO TAKE. I prayed and prayed not to die in my sleep. The lord swooping in and snatching up my soul was the coldest of comforts. In this I am sure I am not alone.

When my parents split up, my father moved into the lower level of a duplex on Highway 60. It was a light-blue two-story, square-faced with three windows evenly spaced on the two floors. It looked vaguely haunted. It had hardwood floors, which my father adored, and I thought were strange. It also featured carpeting in the kitchen and the bathroom, which I perceived as absurd. I had a spacious bedroom in the front of the house there. Highway 60 was a busy road, and we were situated just two blocks from downtown, so the sound of traffic was fairly constant. I had two twin beds, but I rarely slept in either. I preferred the fold-out couch in the living room, where I camped out weekend nights with snacks and cokes and MTV while my father was out. But I could still hear the traffic, especially the trucks.

I used to sleep at friend’s houses in the country as a child and lie awake for the first hour, aching for white noise. Eventually their forced air heat would kick in and I would breathe a sigh of relief, drift off to sleep. I remember, even as an adult, sleeping at a friend’s farmhouse. They lived seven miles from the nearest intersection in all directions. I mean, it was the middle of NOWHERE. Even after drinking beer all night, I’d lie in that still, dark farmhouse, under a quilt on the couch with my eyes wide open as a dead deer. Scared of the sound of my own heart beating.

Of-course, now I must have a fan. My mother has bought me white-noise alarm clocks, and they’re okay, but really, I prefer the true mechanical whir. It drove my ex-husband nuts, but he allowed for it, because whenever I had to go without, I was inconsolable. I am a woman of few demands in life, but sleep is sleep.

Recently, I spent the night in the bedroom of a man I’m seeing. He lives in the city, but on the third floor of an apartment on a very quiet road. It is quiet quiet quiet. It was late, there was wine, and other things that might make you tired, but when it came time to sleep, I was a miserable mess. First of all, the quiet. Second, it was hot. Dry, forced air, back bedroom crazy hot. But I was freezing. “How can you be cold?” he said, “your body cranks out BTUs! You’re like a baked potato wrapped in a dishrag.” I felt it was about the most unbecoming analogy I could have dreamt up and told him so. So now – hot, tired and pissy. But I didn’t want to fuss, or move about, or adjust myself too much, because I was a guest in someone else’s bed. I’m polite you know. I discretely stuck my leg out up to the knee, one of the oldest known remedies to discomfort in bed. Nothing. I heard his breathing begin to slow, he’s falling asleep. I think about slipping out quietly and driving home. I can picture my perfectly made bed and my lovely fan with it’s blue plexi blades and old, tired motor. But he spoke out suddenly, “It’s just too HOT.” and I burst out, almost in desperation, “I don’t know, maybe you have a FAN?” He did. It was loud, like a wind machine. It churned like a turbine, and moved the hot air around a little, and I slept like a very cute baked potato, wrapped in a clean, dry dishtowel.

In my twenties, falling asleep alone represented the height of loneliness. Even with my fan, and clock radios, and ashtrays and black and white TVs, it was the bedtime ritual that triggered the most satisfying jags of self-pity. I had occasional, short lived boyfriends, and I loved sleeping with them. Maybe it’s the elastic body of youth that makes it so sublime. Spooning. It’s so lovely. And falling asleep tucked in to the shoulder of your man until he loses circulation in his arm and (gently) rolls you off.  Those heady days.

Throughout my pregnancy with Veronica, Dave and I slept in a double bed, which is close quarters for a very pregnant lady. We slept miserably, but happily, because we were quite in love then I guess. It was during this time that Dave would also read me to sleep, the original Grimm Brothers fairy tales, his voice a plodding monotone lullaby. Later in marriage, we had a king sized bed but even that wasn’t big enough. I wonder if marriages could be saved by separate beds? It was the first place I fled. I moved (with my fan) away, first to the family room, then to a friend’s house, and finally to my own apartment.

My first apartment was an upstairs duplex on a corner in downtown St Cloud, right across from city hall. It faced a dead end street, but on the south side ran Highway 23, the last bit just before it crosses the Mississippi River. My bedroom had slanted ceilings, and a sink in it, and a window at the back of the house. I moved in September, it was was warm, and the first night I slept there, I plugged in my fan, spread my arms out wide and, too tired to be afraid, sank into sleep.

The Worst Blogger on the Planet Mars

Recently My House on Mars has been quiet. Which is not to say that it has been dull. But for me, an active actual life can lead to a very inactive creative one. So while I’ve been traveling to places unknown, both metaphorical and real, I haven’t spent much time tap tap tapping at the old keys. Oh, I’ve written several country western songs and even some very lengthy, mostly crappy blog posts you will likely never see. But nothing I can share.

However, my dear friend Christopher has complained to me that now he has caught up with my blog, he doesn’t have anything to read when he gets his hair dyed. My immediate response is, “Christopher, your silver fox look is so much better anyway, shut up and stop getting your hair dyed. Problem solved. ” But then I have to add, “Christopher, I would do anything for you, even return to the laptop and force some words onto the screen on your behalf.”

Here’s the deal. I have a deck of writing prompts. I just now, literally, dusted it off. (cough, cough) I’ll write one thing every day, and if it’s anything worth sharing, I’ll let y’all know. I hate to resort to such measures, but I fear that if I don’t, My House on Mars will spin off into the atmosphere, never to be heard of again. I’ll do this until I sit down and feel like writing something from my brain, however long that takes.

Starting today.

Treasure City

One man’s treasure is another man’s trash is another woman’s photo. Some treasures from Royalton, Minnesota. Not pictured: man eating clam. It just didn’t live up to expectations.

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10 Secrets of Keeping a Messy House

Some people might look around my slovenly little loft and think I’m lazy. But no! Withhold judgement. It takes a lot of hard work to keep this place in a state of constant disarray. And while I have many books on the subject of organization, housecleaning and home-making (most gifts from my mother) I haven’t read anything about how to preserve chaos in the home. I’m self-taught. I have outlined, for your instruction, a few basic principles of mess-making and maintaining in the home, laying bare my secrets for the first time.

1. It Helps to Have a Lot of Stuff

I remember once a co-worker delicately told me, “Jennifer, I think you just have too much stuff.” Blink blink. I hear the words you are saying, but I don’t understand them. How can it be “too much” when it is all absolutely necessary? For instance, at the time we had a lot of built in storage. One drawer was devoted to fur collars, cuffs and remnants I had picked up at a garage sale several years earlier. Sure, they were unused and generally unloved, but when would I ever find them again if I needed them? Huh? Never. And you never know when you might need musty fur parts.

Some people devote time to “weeding out” and “sorting” their things. I have even heard of complex sorting systems that involve separate piles for keeping, donating and trashing. I perceive that people enjoy this process, the act of purging. Then they take everything left in the “keep” file and sort and label that. And they enjoy that part too. You know what? I’d rather be writing, or cooking, or laying in the park on the grass looking up at the clouds while I listen to the children play. Or reading a damn book. Or doing other things that increase the mess in my house. So, the only time the act of “purging” seems like fun to me is when the alternative is moving it to another house. Then it’s just moving.

Books are heavy, colorful dust collectors that make you look smart!

2. Collecting Things That Collect Dust

It’s not just having a lot of stuff that counts, it will add to an overall impression of chaos if the stuff you collect is bulky and in need of display. Maybe you collect stamps. That’s very nice, but it’s also orderly, and therefor not a boon to a messy house. Whatever it is you collect, have more of it than you have room to store. For example, I like books. I have bookshelves that are packed, and still, I buy more books, which means I have piles of them everywhere – next to the bed, leaning up against the wall, stacked on top of the bookshelves. To add to the volume, my children have books as well, and they leave them scattered not in stacks, but singly, wherever they feel like it. My daughter has been leaving books on the bathroom floor for years – a resplendently disgusting habit that makes a mother proud. Tchotchkes of all kind are great at collecting dust. I can imagine figurines, antique dolls (creepy!), glass birds, and model airplanes fitting nicely into the mix. Records – as in vinyl record albums for listening on the phonograph player – are especially cunning if you never put them back in the their sleeves, but fan them out all over the floor while you drink box wine and sing Emmylou Harris to no one in particular. That is only a suggestion.

3. The Drug and Alchohol Option

Though I don’t endorse this method, television has taught me that all drug addicts and alcoholics are master slobs. I don’t even think you have to try, it just comes naturally.

4. Confessions of a Clotheshorse

If all my clothes were clean at one time (a purely hypothetical condition) there is absolutely no way  I could

These clean clothes are bound to put themselves away. Child included for scale.

fit them in my full sized closet and two Ikea dressers. Laundry is an ever present threat at our house, with baskets and hampers looming large at all times. Dirty clothes dub as wall-to-wall carpeting and clean clothes remain in baskets, sometimes folded, but rifled through and overspilling. Three key factors contribute to high volume of garments in our house. 1. Kids grow. Any parent knows that at all times, at least a third of the clothes in your kids drawers are too small, and up to one-fifth are too big. 2. The Wild Fluctuations in Weight of the Average American Woman paired with the optimistic belief that It Will Fit Again. And 3. Clothes aren’t for covering the body, but costumes that convey the character and personality of the person wearing them. if you have more than three alter-egos, you’re going to have a lot of clothes.

5. Children: Not Necessary But Exponentially Advantageous

I’m not going to say my kids are responsible for my messy house, because truth be told, I was an expert slob long before they came along. However, the character of filth that children add to the mix cannot be understated. Children are disgusting. They excrete a trail of discarded food, broken toys and bodily fluids wherever they go. They think nothing of stashing a crust of toast behind the drapes, or leaving a soiled kleenex at the top of the stairs where you are sure to step on it. And of-course, there are the toys, with all their SMALL PIECES. Legos are the exemplar. You can try to keep them sorted and in bins all you want, but eventually, you will wake up with one under your pillow at two in the morning. Another tip about children: don’t look under their beds. Why would you do that? You don’t want to know what is under there. That is why the monsters live there, because it is a naturally terrifying habitat. Once a year, give your six year-old a gas mask and a garbage bag and lock the door.

6. Pets: The Perpetual Polluters

Pets are a non-stop generator of messes. Dogs and cats that shed are recommended, especially when paired with hardwood floors and an aversion to brooms. Dogs that like to chew and destroy things are superb, as are cats who scratch the shit out of furniture. I had some finches once, and they left a daily spray of husked bird-seed shells in a three-foot radius around their cage, which invariably stank. Yes, pets add that special olfactory element that is the pièce de rèsistance to a messy home.

Just because it is contained doesn't mean it has to be organized!

7. The Artist’s Way

I think artist’s really do have an unfair advantage in creating a cluttered, disorderly space. Some artists have to keep a neat studio because their materials are particularly hazardous and require vigilant supervision. And if the artist has a separate studio, then they may be inclined to keep a tidy home. But the economy sucks and real-estate is outrageous, so it is likely many artists must work from home. Here are some really good mediums for making a mess:

• Painting of any kind (requires water, or toxic chemicals, or both)
• Sculpture (especially from found objects, and especially if you work at a scrap yard, ahem)
• Collage (scraps of paper everywhere, paired with adhesives of various sorts)
• Charcoal drawing (charcoal, when combined with dust-bunnies, makes little poofy dust bombs)
• Sewing (this seemingly benign domestic “craft” creates the biggest shitstorm of mess imaginable)
• Printmaking (wood or linoleum shavings and effusive output!)

8. Don’t Look at Magazines

Don’t ever even look at Real Simple, Martha Stewart Living, Dwell or any other Clean House Porn. Next thing you know you’re headed to the Container Store, buying a label maker and losing sleep over how to organize your tupperware drawer. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. However you can buy these magazines and leave them laying around the house. That’s okay.

9. No Tresspassing

Entertaining is great fun, but you will feel inclined to create the illusion of order within your home. Avoid it. If you must (as in the case of a children’s birthday party) don’t worry, you can just shove stuff in closets and under beds for the time being, thereby creating a secondary mess to savor at another time.

10 The Power to Avoid

There are people who find it impossible to concentrate on anything else while their surroundings are in disarray. I suffer from this condition in the kitchen, though to a lesser degree. On the whole, I have developed the ability to blur my vision so as to obscure stacks of dishes, mounds of clothes and piles of paperwork. This is a lifetime skill, and if you don’t care to cultivate it, that’s ok, because there is an alternative: just leave. In this way, over-scheduling and social obligations can be a huge asset. Lack of time is one of the easiest and most fool-proof ways to ensure a very messy house. Sure, you might not have time to create more messes, but eating and changing clothes without taking the time to do the dishes or laundry adds up fast. When you come home from a day packed with appointments, running errands and visiting friends you will undoubtedly collapse without another thought. Those dishes can wait until tomorrow!