I am cheerfully home. The Uttermost West was lovely, and warm, and full of the kind of scenes with my brother that only happen in movies, where the big, hulking kid pulls his sister close on the beach and hugs her, whispering mi familia like it means something. I think I’m someone’s sister again. What a surprise, at 28.
And wouldn’t anyone be surprised to see the California girl tear up as her plane glides in over the Cuyahoga, and the fog is pearly and pink over the water, and think to herself: this is where I live now. This is my place. I wondered idly while in the golden dry mountains of the coast whether my ex-husband was really my major arterial connection to the place–I wasn’t born there, it was always grafted on. But Seattle isn’t home either, and I think that means Cleveland is, for now. I was so happy to see the green, new spring bursting, and new trees planted in the yard, and the cool, post-rain May afternoon that seemed so much gentler and lovelier than the blazing California version of my birth month.
So–happy Cat. Home. Home to books arrived from Barnes and Noble, a birthday package from
containing Minotaur from BPAL (thanks, guys, it smells weird and smoky and wonderful!), and roses and Orangina from my people.
Also to having to call my student loan people today and try not to just scream I KILL YOU into the phone. It’s like fucking Brazil with these people.
But also also, to a Plain Dealer article on me and the Tiptree (sounds like a buddy movie) although you’d have to get a paper copy to see the pretty picture of me clutching my book like a real author. Hopefully I can scare one up before the end of the day. And on top of that, to this necklace, which just has me gobsmacked.
So all in all a good morning. The house is clean, there is work to be done, my back still hurts terribly, not helped by hauling half my worldly possessions across the continental divide, nor the airplane ride–I think they’ve actually reduced the amount seats can recline in coach since the last time I flew. But I’m home.