Home, where my thought's escaping

Jack says when I say the word home, meaning Toronto, he can hear the capital H in my voice, so when I called the other day to say I was coming home to California, I said "home, small H."

Truth is, I'm a woman without a home. A woman without a country, really — homes, I have two: a condo in Toronto, which I own, and which has nothing in it that I care about, and an apartment in San Jose, which I do not own, and which has everything in it that I care about. Especially Pinky.

It's the country thing that upsets me some. See, in this country, the United States of America, I am considered a "non-resident alien." That's my official status, bald silver head and glowing green eyes. I learned this only recently, when it was brought to my attention that I had checked the wrong box on an official form. Given the choice of "resident alien" and "non-resident alien," I selected the former, reasoning that I live here and what with the silver skin and all.

But it seems I am actually a non-resident alien. Don't ask me to explain the logic; it's not my country.

My country, since you asked, Gentle Reader, now considers me a "non resident."

All of which means I live in two places, or in no place at all, depending on your perspective.

So what's a woman who's just come home, small H, from home, capital H, and who resides in no country to do? Open the box that was delivered while she was away, and that contains her new purple stipey and flowered flannel sheets, and her new purple microsuede comforter cover, and climb into bed. There's something about soft, warm, new sheets that makes the world a better place.

Especially when your cat is the icing on that world.



Next, Postmodern Sass gets dooced by Dooce.