house maid

It is saturday morning on Clinton Street and the sky is gray, leaves yellowing to match the house across the street. The pavement is still dry, and I am content. On my way home Thursday, black clouds had gathered like gossips, fat bellies hanging expectantly above my neighborhood, ripe with rain. But there has been little drizzle and we wait. There are still yard sales. It is still warm enough that I am not shopping for a coat. I vascilate between wanting a navy blue carrhart unlined barn jacket and a trench coat. Both which I probably have somewhere, but am too lazy to look.

We had a guy come out to give an estimate on the upstairs. I don't remember if I've talked about the stairs.... exactly as wide as my ass, about twice as steep as stairs should be, rising from the middle of the house to the unfinished attic. It will be a project to get them turned around and the attic turned into a master suite for us, but worth it. Space... He can't start until after the holidays, which would be best because I don't want things torn up at Christmas. Its hard enough.

The house is clean, laundry in process, and I'm just going to hang out here today and pretend I don't have a job to go to. I guess I will never accept the fact that I was not born to royalty and will never have a maid. Every maid I've ever had raided my medicine cabinet and stole my linens. My maid. One. Sherry. Sherry liked Sherry. She overwatered my plants and my wood floor warped. Blame. It was when I was I-5-ing it back and forth from HIS house, my love, my long distance sweetie pie. And now I am here. And it is OUR house.

K is helping people move today -- a friend who's mother had dual aneurisms and is now out of commission. A woman my age. Scary what the future could hold. John Mellencamp is 55 today. He reminds me of an era of my life. The eastside era. Coosbay. Lindblad's. My life is separated into several different eras.... There are so many. With characters enough to fill a novel each.


Greekfest on Belmont!! woohoo. I'm there.