This week, I finally made it to my semi-annual appointment for a dental cleaning (Can it still be called “semi annual” when you end up cancelling three times and are therefore seven months late for a once-every-six-months event?). I love my dental cleanings because there is no risk of the dreaded needle and because I can count on about half an hour of waiting room time. As a working mother, this is like a mini-holiday – child-free, husband-free, client-free, and surrounded by magazines. So lovely!
In keeping with my mini-holiday fantasy, I refused to read anything that included health and fitness advice, tips on cooking/cleaning/organizing the home, or pictures of skinny, young models sporting clothing I cannot afford. This left me with a stack of home decorating magazines, or as I like to call them, “pornography for the heavily mortgaged”.
Inside the glossy covers, every room was freshly painted, perfectly lit, and usually sans people (
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