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Home Is Where

mood: deflated | drinking: daily teapalmyra_porch

I have learned a few things in the three weeks since we sold our house.

1: I am not good at being displaced. 2: I still do not find anything charming about drunk college boys cavorting beneath my window at 2 a.m. 3: Home is not the place where all your stuff is. That’s just where you live. Home is something altogether different…

Where the heart is. Where you belong. Where you feel safe. Where you go to get away. Where you long to be in the middle of a stress-filled day.

And while Boy and I continue our long and arduous search for the place we will eventually call home, I find myself getting a bit frayed around the edges. The lack of home is much harder than I imagined it would be.

I thought apartment living would be a lark. Like playing house.

It’s not.

Apartment living reminds me of all the things that I miss about having a home. And they’re not things, really. Because I have all my things, stacked in boxes all around me. What I don’t have is the feeling of belonging in the space that I inhabit.

What I don’t have, at night, after a never-ending day of deadlines and demands and divas, is a refuge.

Although that’s not true, entirely. I have Boy. I have LeeLoo, even (who hates apartment living as much as Boy and I do).

Here’s the thing I never realized until now, though… Growing up, I had a home. 497 Palmyra Road. That was where I belonged. And then I got older and I went away to college and I got a degree and then a job and then a succession of apartments and roommates and temporary living arrangements.

And then I met Boy and we had our own apartments and rental houses, and they were better. They were homier. And then, five years ago, we bought a place of our own. We settled in. We nested. We chose paint colors and carpets and dishes and drapes. We turned that place into a home. It was the first time in my adult life I felt like I had a place to go to, in a very specific sense, that was my home.

I didn’t realize until now how much that meant to me.

On better days I tell myself, or Boy, or both of us tell each other: “We will find a home. Soon. And it will make all of this worthwhile.” And I believe it.

Today is not a better day. Today is the end of a very long week in which I’ve wobbled along, hanging onto shreds of my former bouncy optimism. Today is another day in which I go to the place where my stuff is, the place where my mail is delivered, the place where I lay my head, and feel the lack.

I feel guilty, too, for complaining. What about the homeless, I think. What about all those who live in apartments like this and have no alternative, no other home on the horizon, I think. I have so much to be grateful for, I think.

And it’s all true.

But this is my reality, and it is true as well. And today is just… not a better day.

Maybe tomorrow will be.

-Lo, searching and searching and searching.

Where Does the Time Go?

Mood: Oh, so sleepy
Drinking: Water

It’s time for the Sunday Night Blues. That’s what me and this one guy used to call it way back when I was stupid enough to talk to guys on the phone for hours and think that meant we had some sort of connection. (long story, not worth telling). You know what I mean though…it’s that time of night when you’re like, “Shit. I have to work in the morning. I should have slept in longer. I should have taken a nap all curled up in a pile of blankets in the sun with my dog. I should have eaten more candy.” Or whatever your should-haves might be.

Slight consolation: it’s a short work week and I have plans for a movie lunch with a co-worker to go see Lemony Snicket and get our gothic children’s tale fix. (Screw you, Harry Potter.)

For the past six months, since Boy and I got all adult overnight and bought our Very Own Home, I’ve done nothing but work my hinder end to the nub every. single. weekend. There is always some new Task that must be done. Especially since the parental units are coming for Christmas (which I am inordinately excited about, but which also triggers the need for excessive cleaning and random projects and the mowing of the lawn in mid-December).

This weekend’s task: re-upholstering dining room chairs. So very glamorous and sexy. Ok. Not really. But strangely satisfying, nonetheless. (There is really so little of life that actually is glamorous and sexy, have you noticed? So disappointing when you have tulle-skirted ballgowns and no reason to wear them. I was foolish enough, at one time, to think that I would be attending some sort of fancy parties and balls and whatnot when I was All Grown Up. Wishful thinking. And I buy the tulle ballgowns anyway. Addiction to tulle, that’s my diagnosis.)

My weekend wasn’t all about dining room chairs. Some Thai food was consumed. Friends were seen. Movies were watched. Books read. Lawn mowed. (but you knew that already.) Last-minute presents were wrapped. LeeLoo got her beach time.

I am oh-so-productive. And oh-so-very sleepy. Which is probably why I am rambling on and on with no point in sight. I’ll give up now.

Lo, who can’t wait to see what exciting adventures Monday might bring. (That’s my sarcastic font, there.)