Why I love living where I do, con't: My house is a watermelon.
I never have to give specific directions to anyone who comes to visit me anymore, you see. I just tell them that I live in the watermelon house. It's all green on the outside, and inside it's bright bright pink. It's not so pink by the time you get upstairs into the living room I and the roommates occupy, and my own room is blissfully plain white, but as far as any visitor is concerned, it's pink and green.
That's not only the reason I don't have to give a number anymore, though. You really can't miss my house, even if you're colorblind, not with all brick-a-brack and decorations outside. In the summer, it was dogs: little stuffed dogs on the porch, dog stained-glass ornaments, wooden doggie cutouts, puppy paws all over the front door. As fall came on, it transitioned to pumpkins and turkeys.
And right now, the porch boasts a life-sized stuffed deer.
It scared me the first time I saw it, coming back late at night. I got out of the car and was walking up to the house when I saw this huge deer just standing there, looking at me. Would I spook it, I thought? Should I move away? And then I saw it was fuzzy, and had glass eyes, and realized that it was only a decoration: which, however, made it more creepy rather than less. But it's amazing.
When it rains, the deer has a plastic bag around its head. Nothing else is covered, just the head. So when I step out, there's a deer with a bag on its head standing on the porch, waiting to greet me when I come home.
And now it has lights about its neck and antlers that trail down to the railings and the floor. Red lights, and when they're lit up, it looks like the deer was decapitated, and there's thick, magically shining blood, like glittery cherry pie filling, spilling out and down its chest and over the porch and puddling on the floor. It's at once extremely festive and macabre.
I tell you, every day walking out of my house is like a little adventure.
That's not only the reason I don't have to give a number anymore, though. You really can't miss my house, even if you're colorblind, not with all brick-a-brack and decorations outside. In the summer, it was dogs: little stuffed dogs on the porch, dog stained-glass ornaments, wooden doggie cutouts, puppy paws all over the front door. As fall came on, it transitioned to pumpkins and turkeys.
And right now, the porch boasts a life-sized stuffed deer.
It scared me the first time I saw it, coming back late at night. I got out of the car and was walking up to the house when I saw this huge deer just standing there, looking at me. Would I spook it, I thought? Should I move away? And then I saw it was fuzzy, and had glass eyes, and realized that it was only a decoration: which, however, made it more creepy rather than less. But it's amazing.
When it rains, the deer has a plastic bag around its head. Nothing else is covered, just the head. So when I step out, there's a deer with a bag on its head standing on the porch, waiting to greet me when I come home.
And now it has lights about its neck and antlers that trail down to the railings and the floor. Red lights, and when they're lit up, it looks like the deer was decapitated, and there's thick, magically shining blood, like glittery cherry pie filling, spilling out and down its chest and over the porch and puddling on the floor. It's at once extremely festive and macabre.
I tell you, every day walking out of my house is like a little adventure.