Peanut gave thanks last night for his holiday leftovers. Personally, I love his manic, “I just got a turkey bone” face. It looks like he got away with something he doesn’t want us to know about. Even though Scott handed him his prize, and I was happily documenting.
In 10.5 short hours, my best friend from high school will show up on my doorstep, and I’ll be transported to the mental state of a seventeen year-old. I’m pretty excited about that. It’s not that I want to be excessively giggly or dramatic, which I think we both avoided fairly well for teenage girls. It’s just that old friends are great. They knew what you were like before you knew what you were like, and they decided to keep caring about you anyway.
If a thought passed through my head in high school, she knew about it. Even if I meant to keep something to myself, it inevitably spilled out in late-night conversations on the trampoline behind her house. Who knows how many hours we spent looking for shooting stars back there while we talked about life. Not many of my seventeen year-old thoughts were worth sharing, but she never told me they didn’t matter.
Looking back, I wonder how we didn’t run out of things to say. We went to the same classes, ate lunch at the same table, played most of the same sports, and hung out with the same friends. And somehow, we never even got close to the end of a conversation.
There’s plenty of new material to cover now that we only see each other a time or two a year. Almost all of the details of our lives have changed, and we definitely don’t get to eat lunch at the same table anymore. Most of all, I’m excited about living a small portion of our lives in the same time and place again. There’s something about sharing space that helps you really know what’s going on in someone’s life more than hours of long-distance conversation. So I think in true seventeen year-old fashion, I’ll celebrate the moment with a simple, “Yay!”
Going home is one of my favorite things about each day. I like to think that I’m somewhat adventurous, but no matter where I’ve been or how much I’ve enjoyed being gone, it’s good to step inside the door, greet my dog, and be home.
Every once in a while, I wonder if I love my stuff too much. It’s just stuff, after all, and the house that stores the stuff is just four walls and a roof.
Then when I really look at the stuff, I remember that what I love are the stories that go with the objects. That’s what’s so great about walking in the door. I’m surrounded by things that remind me of happiness that’s been scattered across the past twenty-six years.
There’s an etching from a trip my dad took a few years ago, and it reminds me of all the times he sent me a postcard while he was gone or told me about the places he visited. There’s a beautiful chipped vase that my grandmother gave me when I got my first apartment (I really like the chip). There are books from all sorts of friends, and for the most part, I can tell you where each is from and when I read it. Even the stupid stuff like my replica of The David’s foot that cost a whopping 99 cents on eBay reminds me of something. And things that weren’t gifted are connected to evenings with friends and lazy Sundays spent doing nothing much.
I know I would be the same person without my things–weird defects, long stories and all. But I like coming home to my stuff. It’s like being hugged by a long lost friend every time I walk into the house. I hope I always feel that way about going home, even if the stuff inside changes.
Happy thoughts at the moment: fields, the World Cup and Wimbledon, and my front porch. I’m actually pretty predictable in the “happy thoughts” department… except for the World Cup. That one’s a fluke.
Perfect evening plans: time on the porch and a viewing of Field of Dreams.
Perfect soundtrack to current daydreams: George Winston’s Ballads and Blues. Did your family play specific music on summer road trips? Mine did. It was George Winston all the time, and it was good. I still think about sitting in the back seat of a warm rental car, driving around the Adirondacks every time that music comes up on my iPod.
Once again, this is not my photography. It sure is pretty though. It belongs to this photographer.
Yesterday was my second sick day in a year. I did actually go to work for two hours, but then I retreated to my couch and spent a vast majority of the day sleeping, which is exactly what sick days were made for. Sometime after coming out of that coma, I ended up on the porch with a book. I felt pretty justified in that use of time, too. It was a book for work, after all.
The real fun is that it was warmer outside yesterday than it’s been for a while. It’s easy to forget what a lovely invention the porch swing is when it’s cold out. A breeze isn’t really what you’re looking for in 30-degree weather.
So yesterday I sat there reading, occasionally looking at the front yard I hope to turn into a beautiful garden (currently filled with dead grass and clumps of weeds… hmm). I was still tired and not really resigned to the idea of returning to work the next morning. I had lots of filing to do in the hours after the reading break, but in that moment I felt like I was soaking up peace. I was suspended in quiet, out of my normal scheduled activities, thinking about nothing in particular except for the heroine of my book. It was a beautiful moment, and I can’t wait for many more like it as spring and summer roll around.
Okay, so I don’t really believe in the whole “when the planets align and the world is a perfect place” thing, but it does make me smile when things just seem to work out.
I had such a good Monday, and Tuesday is turning into a winner as well. Why? It’s one of those times that the little things that bug you slide away. That’s my favorite kind of happy, because it’s so much harder to lose. You can be in a good mood because you ate a great meal, but then you get hungry again in a few hours. You can be excited about an upcoming event or a really good hair day, but they’re eventually over. So that’s why this is my favorite.
You can’t mess with the happy if it isn’t about anything in particular.
If you stuck a gun to my head and made me analyze the situation further, I’d say that I am in fact excited about events and such. I’m excited about signing up for a race in March, about seeing my brother again in a few months, about spending tons of time with friends this past weekend, and about a bunch of much smaller things. It’s good to be reunited with my dog after a two and a half day absence (ha), and I’m not complaining about the fact that I lost 3 pounds while scarfing down double bacon burgers this weekend. Love it!
Even though the general glow of life at the moment is linked to solid things, it’s really more about letting the bad stuff sink into the background. I need to find a way to do this all the time. I’d be the most annoyingly perky person you know. It’d be perfect (for me, that is… not so much for you).
Since I haven’t found that mysterious key yet, I can’t possibly write an entirely happy post. That wouldn’t be right. So going back to the double bacon burgers for a second, I will complain just a little bit. That’s right, I’m a girl, and I’m complaining about losing weight. Sure, I like to be skinny just as much as the next girl. What about the pants though? Why doesn’t anyone talk about the negative impact of losing weight on your wardrobe?! I’m actually still wearing all of my clothes, but most of my work pants look roughly like this:
Attractive, right? I thought so. Since the aforementioned alignment of planets is currently taking place, I’m choosing to ignore the pants situation. I do think the ugly truth about weight loss should be blown wide open, however. Who wants to buy new pants when the old ones are perfectly nice looking (except for the fact that it would be super easy to be pantsed in them)? Not this girl.
Okay, that’s all. I hope you enjoy the mental image of those pants on your local librarian. Would it make you more or less likely to ask for help?