*ed note #2: my husband does not actually hate me.
A year or so before my father-in-law passed away, he hired a friend to make several bookcases for his house. There was lumber left over from the project, so my father-in-law commissioned the carpenter to make one custom shelf each for my family and my sister-in-law's family. We now have this beautiful low and long bookshelf that I am absolutely in love with.
I'm a little crazy about my books. And by "my books" I mean, any book that enters this house that doesn't require returning to the library. I like for my books to be ordered properly (said order cannot be explained at all, and the blueprints for that order reside solely in my head). I like for them to look nice. I like for the books to be inviting and accessible.
I am the teensiest bit OCD when it comes to my books.
And yet, at some point last week, this happened:
Top Shelf- a beautiful row of hopeful books, just waiting to be read aloud to my Bees
And Then- the middle shelf, a mish-mash of tossed books and magazines
And Then- a banana peel. I'm not sure how long it had been sitting there when I spotted it
At one point, those shelves were brimming with a bounty of books. Now they're just a place to put a peel.
I hate to admit it, but that spent banana bottom shelf is a visual metaphor for my housekeeping skills. I start out all gallant and noble and with only the best of intentions. Then, life happens around The Bee Hive and my intentions fall to the side like a month-old Highlights magazine. Finally, I just give up, eat some chocolate, throw the potassium-filled plátano on the ground and wait for my husband to come talk me down off the "I'M SO CRAPPY!" ledge.
And then I start at the Top Shelf of life again.