So I have a question:
Do you ever wonder what's on the seam of your husband's jeans? Do you ever ponder what you're putting into the washing machine? Do you ever tell your daughter not to walk on the carpet for fear that cow manure will come off of her coveralls?
I know, I know...I'm one of the lucky ones!
Seriously, though, I have a lot of questionable dirt that comes through my house. A LOT. From the front entryway floor, where various sizes of Northerners are housed with various amounts of mucky, muddy stuff on them, to the to top of the entryway's benches (the ones I bought because Better Homes and Gardens said so) where there are random yellow chore gloves, the flannel ones with red cuffs, which are lying in the sun, baking because this entryway is mostly glass, and emitting a lovely, warm, poop-ish smell.
Then there's the back entryway, the "mudroom" as the Bible...I mean BHG would call it. Atop an antique dresser (read: found in a shed, used as a changing table 21 years ago for my cousin, and now in my back entryway and the dog chewed the legs...I call it "distressed."), you will find various clothing covered, smeared, speckled, or just splattered with what looks like mud, but could be something else. Joe believes that work clothes have multiple wears, regardless of where he's been (that's not true...sometimes they do from his back directly to the washing machine), because he'll just get them dirty anyway.
True, and those preaching to conserve the earth's water are applauding Joe's conservation efforts. However, they smell.
The great thing about my questionable mud is that 1) I do not ever question it, and always consider it dirty and throw it in the laundry and 2) it truly makes my mud room a mud room. In this month's issue of Better Homes and Gardens, there are several glossy pictures of different family's mudrooms. They are complete with white built-in cabinetry, farmhouse style sinks, cubbies and nooks and hooks and baskets for all the gear you could think of. Folding stations house glass urns of laundry soap. Hampers are pieces of art, woven baskets that match the trim color to perfection. Words like "Laundry" and "Wash" are sculpted out of wood and hung atop the drying station. Even Fido the dog has a built-in doggie dish and pull out bed.
This is awesome.
However, this is completely ridiculous for me to even ever consider having in my house,with my life, and my family's occupation.
While I would love to have a larger, spacious, cubbie-fied mud room, for now, I would love to send in a picture of a true mud room, sans the doggie dish and sculpted words, but with the mud and the dog hair and soiled jeans. Words like "Wash" and "Laundry" need not be hung atop my washing machine. Duh. The clothes and their smell, piled usually not in the hamper tell me just by their looks that they need to be laundered.
I do have a hard working back porch, the problem...well, not the problem, the good thing, is that I have a hardworking family that helps put the mud room on the map. The mud isn't a source of annoyance, but a badge of honor. Anna earned her mud today by working all day, complete with aiding during a cattle emergency while she worked alongside her dad. Joe's chore gloves are dirty from feeding the heifers that will soon give birth, giving them strength during the last weeks of their pregnancy. The dog hair is from the dog that, although she barks all night, is a loyal companion and will scare away any UPS man who tries to deliver ANYTHING to us. Ugh.
So, BHG, come out to my house if you want a "before," or just a picture of a real mud room...and while you're at it, could you take a look at my questionable mud on Joe's pants? You probably have a remedy for that stain in your archives.