Every time I walk into my mother’s house, it’s fresh. Revitalizing. Clean.
My mother doesn’t live on a dirt lot or have five cats. She doesn’t have any cats, but for the sake of drama in this post, I’m emphasizing the five cats she doesn’t have… and we do.
My mother’s house is the house my house aspires to be.
For the last ten days, I’ve been intensely deep cleaning Bedford Manor. And even the cats are sleeping better because of it.
Two days ago, I received the best compliment ever. Dot and I went to lunch at my mother’s, and Dot said, “Our house feels this clean, too!”
It’s not that our house was dirty. But it certainly had plenty of hidden dust bunnies. I’d show you… but I chose to not document that portion of my efforts. Let’s just say I could build five new cats with the fur I’ve discovered recently.
It smells good. It looks good. It feels good. And because I’ve had several requests to show it off (and because I don’t want to be a fictitious magazine contributor like Elizabeth Lane in Christmas in Connecticut), here are just a few authentic reasons I love my Bedford Manor:
And by the time you’re reading this, I’ll be watching this as my reward:
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!