It’s quiet in my apartment. The Teenager has returned to college. Where she lives amongst her friends, suite mates, and other teenagers roaming the great city she’s residing in. She’s been with me, here in New York, for a month. This apartment is not her home, not just yet. I know where her home is. I know where her home is. This place, it’s still so new, where I moved us to. The space, the space, the space she has. I’ve been so happy having her in the room next door. She finally has a lock on her bedroom door, it’s almost a novelty, she uses it though, damn does she ever. Days before she left, we went to Home Deport, got multi-colored bulbs for her room, for mine. Turned our bedrooms into wonderlands. We traded winter coats, me basking in hers, she modeling mine, mine looking so perfect on her frame. If it weren’t so cold in her school-town, I’d have let her take it back with her. I made her breakfast, on the days we were both awake at the same hour. Most days, I left for work. Some days, she’d be up with me, first light. All the days, it was me who walked our dog. I made salmon one night; reluctantly, she ate it. That, that was a victory. A new dish for the repertoire. Ever the roasted brussel sprouts of mine that she loves. I will admit to drizzling way too much olive oil, but she’d beg to differ, I’m sure, she likes how I make it. These things, these things, I miss not doing. Or rather, doing for just myself. She’s so happy, right now, in her dorm, amongst the life she’s created. Is her dorm her home? No. Home is where I am. And where she will return.
Get your puppy a denim jacket. Your friends won’t laugh at you. No way.
Missy Elliot gets another notch in her very successful belt.
Have you been watching Dirty John? So, so, so good. Scary too.
What’s your take on weed?
I’m sorry, not sorry, whatever.
A look forward. To your 70’s.
The Talk, for the middle-aged woman.
Now have a laugh with Leslie Jones.
Also I am going to stare at this everyday until it goes on sale.