TMF

On Sunday, languishing on the deck in my mother-in-law's backyard, Emma, her cousin Talia and Adam's sister Megan and I were chatting about books we've read, books we want to read, books we recommend to each other.

Talia told me about a book call The Duff:  Designated Ugly Fat Friend.

I think it's mean to have a designated ugly fat friend.  I do.

But I have come to accept that maybe I am the TMF for some of my friends:  The Messy Friend.

Without any foresight in what I was setting myself up for, I was at Jill's house, looking at paint chips and suggested we walk across the street to my house to see the paint in my boys' room that may work for one of her boys.

Jill's house is spotless.  Her children's rooms are spotless.  I don't know how she does it.  It seems like some sort of anomaly.  Something rare and unrepeatable.  Except for Janet's house is the same way.  Every time I used to visit my friend Mindy, her house was the same.

We walked over to my house.  It's sort of messy.  Always.  I have twin desires:  I want a spotless house and I want to read and write and conjure up ideas.  Guess which desire mostly wins?

I wouldn't say we're slovenly.  (Jill and Janet and Mindy might disagree.) We are mostly swept and dusted and the like but there's always an undercurrent of stuff.  Clutter.

Always there are books, notebooks, pencils, light sabers.

The throw pillows get....thrown.  It's a losing battle.  But I can't blame anyone for the book.  It's mine.

But, I comfort myself.  If I'm the TMF, if I can make my friends feel good about themselves, then that's something.

Because I really love do my friends.  (Even though they're unreasonably tidy.)