"A clean house is the sign of a Squandered Life."
So now you know.
If you visit me, you might need a dust mask.
But then you might like the piano, and all its friends--the squeakbox and the harpy thing--the Dobergirl who puts on a big show, the flocks of deer at the feeder, the godzilla sized woodpeckers a eating suet on the deck, and my Pomeranian GentlemanFriend who is either playing guitar or FalloutThree.
Kitchen table is a workshop. We eat around what ever is being worked on. Things regularly boil over on the stove and things that get burned, are diplomatically called "French." Daughter ensconced on the computer drawing drawing drawing...
Yarn everywhere--Somehow the laundry gets folded, but I don't know why or how. I have no memory of doing it.
After teaching the squeak box for 30 years, moving on to more knitting and medical coding (Large Terrifying Chord)---. So that I can tell insurance companies just how you stabbed your self with your circular needles.
Where's the Ketchup?