Once upon a time, my parents told me I was smart. Little did I know they were liars.

I love interior design, as mentioned in this post about not being glamorous while sweating profusely. This little side passion hit me while I was living on a sailboat, about the time Pinterest became a thing. Suddenly at 28-years-old, I realized I was — in fact — a girl. A shocking revelation after spending my life as a nerdy tomboy.

Domesticity. I love(d) it.

Since moving back to land, I’ve embraced all things cozy, comfortable and chic. The highlight of my day is a new Pottery Barn catalog. I know the difference between post-modern, eclectic, French country and industrial farmhouse. Were I to carve a spirit animal totem, Joanna Gaines would sit at the tippy-top. My favorite part of fall is blankets, candles and a house that smells of Christmas.

A basic bitch be I.

But three adorable, fluffy dogs own me; they have a combined hair output of four quadrillion tons. If you think I’m exaggerating, come and brush them. I dare you.

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But I digress. We’re here to discuss how someone who’s on their third white rug is dumber than an empty shoebox you keep for no reason at all. Yes, a third white rug. Which begs the question: at what point does a learning curve become a learning flat? We’ll come back to this.

Though I don’t want to get too bogged down on white rugs one and two, you may be curious as to what happened to white rugs one and two. More importantly, why I didn’t learn from white rugs one and two. Aside from my woefully underdeveloped frontal lobe.

A brief historical recounting may be in order. If you’re uninterested because who the heck cares about white rugs, please skip to part three White Berber Rugs: Where All Dogs Leave Their Very Best. Look it how considerate I am, caring about your precious reading time. That’s personal growth.

If you are curious about the first two white rugs, please head to part two. My Big White Rugs: A History of Personal Stupidity.