I put the car in park and just sat there for a little bit, enjoying the quiet of my neighborhood in the dark. Some guy walked by with his big, mean-looking dog. I realized as I sat there that I smelled funny. Funny bad, like stale coffee (spilled all over me around 8:30 p.m), and just plain old long, busy day funk.
I guess after a 16-hour day my deodorant had failed me. Poor Arrid extra dry, you never had a chance.
Not wanting to accidentally fall asleep in the front seat and be confused for someone living in their car, I got out, locked it up and headed into the house.
Into the front porch, I pause a minute to reflect on how little we have used this beloved room of ours this year. With the heat being what it has been, and our idiotic schedules, our 3-season party porch has been reduced to a 3-days-a-year reading nook. I remember summers where we spent weekends out here, eating at the little vintage table or hanging out and playing games on the 50's bamboo couch and chair. I think about how much time we spent redoing this room, only to have it sit, unused, this past summer. All of the comfy furniture and the carefully painted floor is coated in dust. Sigh.
I unlock the front door, which is tricky. When we added weatherstrips the door got really tight, so now you can't ever lock or unlock with one hand. If you're carrying anything you have to set it down, unlock, then enter. I'm used to it now, but occasionally it makes me want to rip the whole door off of its hinges and throw it in the front yard.
Into the Chinese-red entryway, our giant Sonny Chiba "Street Fighter" Kung-fu poster greets me with angry cartoonish fight poses. The poster has been up so long that sometimes I forget it's there- but today I stop and look at it and remember how much I like it. It suits us, it suits the room.
The Mr. is laying on the couch, in the dark watching t.v, which I always find amusing. He acts like he doesn't want to fall asleep on the couch- like he wants to stay up and pretend we have a weeknight life or something. I tell him that if he doesn't want to fall asleep in front of the t.v. then he probably shouldn't lay on the couch, in the dark. This makes perfect sense to me, but he just smiles because he knows he'll be there again tomorrow.
I go into the dark dining room- my favorite room in the house that we never use. Lovely French-blue walls, my huge Asian screen on the wall, his Grandmother's dark wood dining set that looks perfect in there and the mismatched wood and iron chair in the corner. I love just looking at this room, yet I can't wait to redecorate. Go figure.
The never-used dining table functions as my all-purpose dumping ground these days: purse, keys, mail, receipts, miscellaneous papers- it's all there. I clean it off every few weeks intending to not junk it up again, but truth be told- I've never been very good at maintaining clean.
Instigating clean, yes. Keeping it up, not so much.
I drop my bag with my coffee-splattered chef coat in it on the floor and head upstairs to change. I know I should shower the funk off, but I'm nearing the point where I can barely walk or talk so showering or not showering seems to be a non-issue here.
On go the ugly, stretchy tan velour sweatpants, a wife beater and a sweater. I seem to have lost both of the left feet of
both of my pairs of fuzzy slippers, so I leave my toes bare, knowing full well that they'll be like little ice cubes by the time I go to bed. I think it's funny to try and touch the Mr. with them once we're warm and cozy under the covers- this drives him nuts.
I kind of like how it feels to crawl into bed with freezing cold extremities- they warm up slowly as you get drowsy, getting just warm enough right when you start to drift off...
I take my cold fingers and toes (and nose) back downstairs.
It's late already for us- around ten or so- but I decide to have a glass of wine to relax a bit. I pull out my favorite wine glass (yes, I have a favorite). It's part of a set of 6 I have, but I only use the one for some reason even I'm not sure of. Into the glass goes the liquid French happiness, and into the living room I go.
A letter-sized plastic-wrapped package is waiting for me on the coffee table. I know it is a t-shirt I ordered a week or so ago, but knowing what it is doesn't lessen my excitement as I love getting packages in the mail- who doesn't? The shirt inside has a 50's housewife on it and says "I should be in the kitchen", which I find hilarious. It's a jersey with red sleeves and a white body- I look at it knowing that I'll probably stain the white part the first time I wear it. I always do. I can't keep anything clean.
It was a long day, but the wine and t-shirt make me happy. So does cozying up on the couch with a cute boy.
The Mr. smiles. He likes it when I'm happy.
