If it wasn't for house guests, we'd probably live in a cave.

We had some friends over for a barbecue this weekend, and aside from thanking them for spending their time with us, I'd like to thank them for forcing us to prepare our home for guests!

Three years ago, we purchased some picture frames on sale from one of those big-box retail stores that stock everything from car batteries to potato chips. Our newly acquired frames languished neatly in a cabinet all this time, waiting for us to make up our minds about what to put in them, and where to hang them.

Suddenly, once we realized our walls would be barren whilst people walked through our home this weekend, we grabbed those frames from storage, cropped a few digital photos, got prints made at the local drug store and SHAZAM, we had chachka displayed for all to see.

Mind you, no one probably noticed the frames or their subjects, but that's not relevant. What is relevant is the fact that my children would have probably inherited those frames in our estate decades from now if we hadn't been motivated this weekend to do something quickly as the specter of visitors imminently loomed.

Why are we compelled to hold out for perfection when "good" is perfectly acceptable? Is it just us (please say no)?

It's not like filling pre-fabbed picture frames, or even hanging them is a permanent act. Those frames can be moved on a daily basis if we're so inspired, and the photos can be swapped-out in a matter of moments. So what's with all the consternation and hesitation?

That question, of course, is rhetorical, because it would probably require a qualified therapist and dozens of hourly sessions of psychoanalysis to actually answer why we do what we do, and the contrived answer would probably include some bull shit about my mother or that time that psycho locked me in a pit in his basement and planned to make a suit out of my skin before the FBI showed up and ... oh wait, that was a movie with Jodie Foster. Nevermind.

To me, our procrastination is the result of a societal conspiracy that has existed for centuries, but only over the past couple decades has been perfected by Martha Stewart and her ilk, requiring home owners to also be museum curators. Why did our home go from our place of residence to a showroom adorned with velvet ropes dangling from shiny brass stanchions? I hate living under the perception that my home and possessions are on display for scrutiny and approval, yet I find myself straightening picture frames as I stroll down the hallway, while yelling at my children for leaving clutter in their respective wakes.

Of course, our friends don't actually judge us. What sort of friends would they be if they did? Any pressure we feel, we put on ourselves. I think we actually recognize this, but still, we scrub our home from top to bottom and focus on every decorative detail whenever visitors are coming.

So, had it not been for our houseguests, we would have gaping vacancies on our walls, and empty picture frames in our closet. For that matter, the first floor windows wouldn't have been cleaned. The patio wouldn't have been power washed. The patio furniture would still be speckled with randomly deposited bird poo, and the patio dining table would have a large owl pellet in the middle of it. The garage would also be a shambles, and several pillows would be "un-fluffed" at this very moment ... heaven forbid!

Thank you dear friends for your unwitting prodding this weekend, for your camaraderie and, most of all, for not noticing the sparse furnishings in our master bedroom. Rest assured, that will be rectified before your next visit.