This isn't home sweet home. Adjust.

She smirks at me from the glossy pages of the woman's magazine. Her smug countenance proving that she is, indeed, a domestic goddess. In fact, THE Domestic Goddess of the Year. All toffed up in a glammy outfit, perfect hair, perfect make-up, all perfectly posed in front of a perfectly set dining table where a perfectly glamourous meal is to be consumed.

Blergh.

Woman like that make me want to pull out their perfectly crimped eyelashes and accidentally spill Jik (household bleach) on their silly satin saris. All hoity-toity posing next to their (apparently) well-fed husbands. The only thing missing from the photo is the Royal Rosette of Utter Perfection that women like her, no doubt, have pinned to their outfits at all times - just in case you were wondering. Hm, they must have photoshopped it out - probably didn't bring out the bling that she had painstakingly embroidered on the hems of her sleeves.

She obviously doesn't have kids, for a start. She never had acne as a teenager. She was born with a radiant complexion which never needs a touch of sunshine to spruce up. She is naturally tanned. And she obviously has nothing better to do with her time than crochet napkin rings and tissue decoupage dessert bowls.

Her perfectly interior decorated lounge is enough to make me want to spill my drink on her soft white rug. All this feng shui nonsense of minimising clutter to allow energy to flow freely through a room! Blah, blah, blah. Messy houses are happy homes. In which case, mine is delirious. 

My home could never grace the pages of a glossy magazine. (Mainly because the dust would make the pictures blurry). The dust-bunnies under the couches multiply uninterruptedly. Better a life lived to the full and a messy home, than a spotless carpet and no stories to tell, right? And hey! If you feel like leaving messages in the dust, you go right ahead - just please don't leave the date...

Where her door mat says WELCOME, mine says HELP WANTED: EVERYONE QUALIFIES.

Where she wakes up spontaneously in the morning all made up and beautiful, ready to wow the world with her wondrous flair, I succumb to a sense of guilt triggered by setting the SNOOZE button off so many times that it woke the kids. I peel myself out of bed and slog over to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I read the sign I stuck up last night just to be on the safe side. It says, For Instant Human Just Add Coffee. A moment of vague excitement leads me to the kitchen where I search for a spoon (in the sink) and a cup (also) and the coffee (instant) to mix up the magic starter fluid. (Damn! I forgot to boil the kettle. Oh well. Caffeine is caffeine, no matter the temperature, right? *downs cold coffee* Wrong!)

Unimpressed, I flip through the article about this domestic goddess who hosts dinner parties twice a week and bakes health bread for the local old-age home, when it strikes me. Yip. I sure could have a claim to fame too. I could spread my wisdom all over magazines like this. Ok, so maybe not this one in particular, but there's bound to be a magazine that would like to do a story based on the other side of the coin, right?

Just imagine... moms like me competing for the coveted title of Domestic Antichrist! We could compare depth of ice build-up in our freezers, number of weeds per square meter in our lawns, number of mornings per week our kids are late for school and the likes. Anyone up for the challenge?