Home is where the heart is, so your real home's in your chest.

Each day I wake anew--not renewed, but blinking and disoriented--reborn. And reborn I feel until I open the wardrobe, flick through the same old shirts, skirts, suits I never wear. As ever my fingers fumble with zippers and snaps, my knees and hips bash ungracefully into bedposts and banisters. Each day I wake from the most vivid dreams I've ever had, blinking and disoriented, not knowing where I am or who I am until I try to do something, anything, and realize I'm still me. Unremarkable me.

On the ninth morning a bed was delivered, and on the ninth day our first houseguests arrived, an old friend, his second wife, their two-year-old son. Days One through Eight were spent in a flurry of heavy lifting and unpacking, driving and packing and unpacking again. I vaguely remember a trip to Ikea squeezed in there somewhere, remembered only because it was at Ikea where I fell in love at first sight for the first time ever. For there, hidden amongst the affordable contemporary Swedish furniture was my one true love:



Fabric, covered with origami animals and for sale by the yard. If ever a benevolent Santa created one thing especially for me it was this. But Santa is not benevolent, or if he is he also has a wicked mean streak for alas, I CANNOT SEW. And after remembering that I CANNOT SEW I did what one does in such a situation, I whined about it on Facebook.

The responses came fast and furious and so it was that I learned sewing is easy and I can learn in a weekend. Which leaves the remaining 29 days of the month for alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.