Hey, I’m running a hotel here. By choice. I think.

Busted: I "style" the Wee Lass's closet.
Busted: I actually “style” the Wee Lass’s closet.

If you put a gun to my head (please don’t) and forced me to choose between living in a hotel, Eloise-ish, and dwelling in my lovely FLA home surrounded by all my lovely, cherished stuff (armoires plural full of beauty products, ten zillion art books, a towering stack of fashion mags…not to mention my husband, daughter and precious meow-meows), there is zero question which one I would choose.

The hotel, baby.

In a heartbeat.

Right this second, I’m forgetting which of the god-like fashion stylists – Carine Roitfeld or Camilla Nickerson – said her numéro un goal for her home was that it look like a hotel.

Wait, I just looked it up in an older blog post about a field trip to the Caudalie Spa at the Plaza. It’s Carine. You’re welcome.

Now that that crisis has been dealt with, let’s move on to Casa Moi, and the struggles contained within.

Actually, it’s really just one struggle. And her name is Wee Lass.

Faithful readers know how hard it has been for me to corral my toy-hoarder daughter and all her many, many teensy-weensies.

Her current teensy-weensy obsession is Shopkins. We’re overrun with Shopkins.

I’m sorry, but I think it’s weird that she’s still so into toys at age 8.5.

Am I glad it’s toys she’s into and not something more nefarious, like boys? Of course. Bien sur. I’m not an idiot.

It’s just that she’s a complete and total slob. A cheerful, loving, diligent-homework-doing complete and total slob, mind you. But a complete and total slob all the same.

But here’s the happy part of this tirade: If you march into her room, Hefty bag in hand, and say: “It’s time to clean up and give away some of your stuff!,” she’ll do it. She’s shockingly unsentimental about 95 percent of the stuff in her life, including art work she slaved over.

That’s why our egg-timer organizing sessions have been such a great success in the past. Bearing her short attention span in mind, we set a minutes goal and purge, purge, purge. (I apply this method to my own organizing, too. Because as much of an Organizing Nerd as I am – I literally have like 20 books on the topic – even I start to get a little cross-eyed after a while…)

Anyway, earlier this week, after the school run, I came back home determined to restore order to my little piggy wiggy’s base camp.

And as I was cleaning, and chucking, and shelving, and chucking, I had an epiphany:

I’m doing this for me.

No one wants order around Casa Moi more than I do, so I’m the one who needs to do it.

Don’t get me wrong, Hubby helps out a lot around here. Not only does he do plenty of chores, he also doesn’t contribute to the mess in any way, shape or form. He’s a neat-nik. And he isn’t a hoarder, like me with my armoires plural full of beauty products, ten zillion art books and towering stack of fashion mags.

Or the Wee Lass, with all her Shopkins and American Girl Dolls…













So what’s my stunning conclusion about all of this?

Wait for it, I actually have one:

I need to realize that the “hotel thing” is for Me, not Them.

That takes the martyrdom out of the equation. Being a martyr is super uncool.