If it looks good, isn't it?

I grew up in a picture postcard home, all clean and sparkly. Look in any window from the outside, and it was Hallmark card time, family all gathered in the family room, roaring fire, rosy red wallpaper with cabbage roses rampant, braided rug, and 21 inch Zenith flickering. It was a different story inside, where Dad seethed and Mom bit her finger raw trying to control her rage. Mom's thing was a bottle of Thunderbird in the cupboard that housed the potatoes. She reached for that stuff every night before supper, just a glass or two, never more. Everyone wished Dad would drink. Dinners were a mine field, eaten with haste, which was a shame; Mom was a good cook. Food was one of the few ways we were nurtured, and it is one of my issues even now. So, I reproduced this aura of wonderfulness in my life too, tried to give it that patina of acceptability. It didn't work for me. Wonderfulness is not in the things around me. It is an inside job. I forget that when I pay one of my rare and brief visits to my ex-husband and his wife. They are fine people, and they have a House Beautiful home, decorated and arranged and antiseptically clean, radiating taste and wealth. My house is not like that. I am still in the shabby chic mode we all attained in our first digs: Cost Plus bookcases and cane chairs, hand-me-down dresser and futon sofa. Of course, I have a dynamite Dell and a laptop and a whole bunch of printers and when I have money, that is what I prefer to spend it on. I rent. Sigh. Most of the time, though, I think I am a success in my life. I have a plethora of friends, amazing adult children who I love, a darling little dog and a sweet parakeet, an income that just arrives at the end of every month, and I love going to school and learning; it is a dream come true. So, it might not look like it from the outside or from the perspective of the "American dream", but I am successful here. Really.