I am at my parent’s home, listening to Alanis Morrissette late at night.
It is suddenly 2002 again.
I'm the book that beat the speed-reader, and I'm the card the dealers won't touch. And it's just not true I'm a man-eater; all the same, we should probably go dutch.
The things you pick up as you go.
Just a small country cottage and a modest mobile for me, thanks.
…All things considered, that’s not a very large— yet still well-done— house, and that’s pretty much perfect to me.
The car ain’t bad, either. I’d take both.
Created one of those wrapping-gift ribbon Hats of Shame for a bride at her bridal shower. I was strangely adept at it. It ended up coming out really well. I think I’ve found a new hidden talent/calling in life.
And I realized that “Home” and “Heal” both start with the same letter and in essence, mean the same thing.
There is nothing, nothing, like sitting out on the massive deck that was the architectural love-note that my father built for my mother at my parent’s house, curled up in one of the chairs in an old plaid flannel shirt that still smells like man, my feet resting on another upon which my big, old tom cat is sleeping on, reading a good book that makes me introspective while listening to the rain patter down on the awning overhead, and looking up to watch it glitter on the grass on the lawn and make the greenery of the expansive gardens and the wood of the surrounding forest even darker.
This is my bliss.
Don’t you know; my childhood bedroom has ended up being the biggest and best of all those that I’ve lived in yet.
God, I love interior decorating. Theme here is Old Meets New— The Windsor chair, marble-top dresser, and dark wood nightstands are from a totally different era and contrast the modern, futuristic lamps, light-finished wood tables, and colorful magazines and picture frames scattered around the room. It seemed fitting, given the circumstances.
Coyotes outside the house. I can hear the pups of the pack, yapping. It makes me smile, though the eerie sound and crying automatically and instinctively makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
Country living. There’s nothing like it.
I just made the most amazing little hummingbird friend. I was sitting out on the deck, reading, when he flew up a foot away from my face, and started squeaking at me. Yes, they actually do squeak, just like in Disney’s Pocahontas.
I promptly started looking around for the fat raccoon.
Dog-sitting for the next few days; Ginger’s a Lab/Pitty mix, and is SUPA-CUTE. She’s followed me around all day— first, we played outside, then she napped next to me on the porch while I read and ate lunch. She’s got a great little toothy under-bite of a grin— can you see it?
Oh, this is love.
When he built our house, my father had a dream— he wanted to be able to come home, walk in the front door, start taking off his clothes, and by the time he walked out the deck door, be naked and have it not be able for anyone to see him from the road.
As you can probably infer from this story, I grew up in a naked house, and, while not nudists, comfortable in my own skin and with other people’s flesh. I have a firm belief which was instilled in me that your own body is your own body; what you choose to do with it is your own business, and nobody else’s. Hence, what you do with your naked body on your own time is of absolutely no consequence to me; therefore, what I do with mine is none of your bloody opinion.
So, while I had the house to myself this rainy, misty afternoon, I walked outside and thought how wonderful it would be to feel the rain on my skin. So I promptly got naked, and took a walk across the lawn, feeling the wet grass on the bottoms of my feet, the slick rock against my skin, and the raindrops on my face and chest.
It was absolutely wonderful.
Started the morning outside on the deck, wrapped up in a blanket and my favorite oversized and fluffy flannel, reading while listening to the rain hit the tarp above me that kept me dry, and thought about life while absentmindedly scratching my old tom cat.
Ended the night in front of the warm and lively fireplace for the first time this season, alternately reading the same book from the morning, or staring at the leaping blue and yellow flames over the logs and crackling embers, thinking about absolutely nothing.
It’s funny, the things that feed our soul.
You know you’re country when you throw on an over-sized flannel shirt and nothing else to go barefootin’ down your driveway and yell at the electric company workers for cutting trees on your property without your consent.
My absolutely perfect fall morning has been ruined by chainsaws.