It's going to snow tomorrow. I was watching the Weather Channel and I think tomorrow, except for rehearsal, will be a good day to make soup for next week. It's not as cold as it was up in Minneapolis last weekend, but the wind chill is pretty nasty.
The mail lately has brought some strange emails from people. One person seems to take a particularly keen interest in what I write, and I realized that that makes me pretty self-conscious about the fact that I've been bad about keeping up with this. If I didn't know there was an audience I wouldn't feel like I was disappointing anyone.
Tomorrow night after rehearsal I'm going to go out skating with Jenny and Mary-Therese. We asked Maureen if she was interested, but she said she was going to be working on something in the evening.
All right, I have a filthy mind. I read everything into that answer. But hey, until I actually know that something happened, I know I should assume nothing happened... I just don't.
I called the real estate agent with whom I've been listing my parents' house for the last few months. I asked them to take it off their listings. She of course wanted to know why, and I just said that I wasn't ready to sell it yet.
I still don't want to live in it, but lately I've been more comfortable visiting it. And I'm not ready to think about handing it over to someone else. It costs me oil, electricity and taxes to run, and that seems a fair price to pay for somewhere I can go where kittens are always welcome. Still, I think all the agent could hear was $9,000 or so she wouldn't be making on commission any time soon.
It's strange. When I'm there, I feel comfortable, but I've felt that same comfort in hotel rooms or cabins or the houses of other people. It doesn't have the same comfort that this apartment has. This place is pretty clearly not mine, but it feels more like my own than my parents' house does. Here is where my life is. In Minneapolis, I'm camping out. Sometimes literally, with sleeping bags and blankets on the floor in the front room, like at Christmas, and most times just psychologically. Not my house, not really. But not totally foreign to me.
When does your parents' house stop being "home?"