frazzled & frumpy

The Handy Man's parents still live in the house they bought when he was in kindergarten. Each room holds memories for him. The basement where he helped paint his mother's freezer.  The backyard is where he played and ran from the torments of his older brothers. He can name the families that live in the houses up and down the street.  If we went to church with my in-laws, there would be many worshipers who could tell me stories about my husband and his childhood antics. They'd smile and resist the urge to pinch his cheeks.  My family moved a lot when I was growing up. A lot. There were two very long trips between Idaho and Arizona that I remember well. Laying in the  way-back of our green station wagon, watching the sky fly by at a brisk 75 mph.  Mom packed lunches and wet washcloths in plastic bags for the long journey.  Stops at the rest area were mini adventures where we were left to explore the rocks and cactus. The house where we lived dur...

(image from justbringthechocolate.com) I've been without a car for two weeks now.  The pile of junk that's been masquerading as my husband's car has become feeble and weak, like an old man, coughing, shaking and sputtering.  We drive it the four blocks to church, but that's as far as I trust it. Mostly because we could walk if it died altogether. This has led to my unwilling confinement.  The walls of my home have steadily moved inward until I feel like I'm living in a closet.  The noises that are a normal part of our everyday routine are louder, bouncing off the ceiling and echoing in my head. It's not that I have so many places to go, but it's nice to have the option, especially when the diet Coke craving raises its ugly head. It makes me sad, to feel so dissatisfied and impatient with our home.  I love it.  We've been here for five and a half blessed years.  Our search for this house didn't take long.  All of the powers of the universe...