Oct 13, 2009 12:19
Rainy Tuesday. Ray LaMontagne, Joe Cocker, Amos Lee. Browsing tiny house plans. Burrowed babydogs who have yet to indicate they are ready to hike- a task usually accomplished by one of them prancing in and unceremoniously dropping their leash on the keyboard. Lentil soup is in the crockpot and I know the house will start to smell like cumin in a few hours.
I've been coming to these empty text boxes for eight years now. A girl just barely eighteen living in a converted barbershop attatched to an antiques store. The guy who lived above me was named Thaddeus and loved whistling along to his country music and running his bandsaw directly above my head very early in the morning. He'd just gotten engaged to his longtime sweetheart, and had this dumb grin on his face whenever I saw him. He called me "little lady." I know my fire-engine red hair and combat boots garnered more than a couple tut-tuts in that po-dunk town. I worked as a researcher for a doctor, reading thousands and thousands of pages about studies conducted to determine how women's bodies absorbed and used flax. I wrote articles for health journals under her name. And I wrote in this journal, under the name of a character from my very favorite book at the time.