My house: don't fuck with it!

Melody and I had a pretty serious episode this evening. Serious, as in, "wondering if this is the right woman for me to be with." It was that serious. And it was about... my house.

I hadn't planned for her to see my house this weekend without my having some time to clean it and cut the grass. Our plan was to take a trip down the Blue Ridge to Monticello, but she became ill on Thursday afternoon, and by this morning wasn't up to driving anywhere far. I had come over earlier than planned last night, abandoning my plans to clean the house to instead bring Melody some things that she had asked for to make her feel better.

This afternoon, though, she improved enough that we went up to Thurmont to a small zoo I like, where she got to feed llamas and sheep and meet some lemurs and turtles and other important local citizens. She also got to have her right breast nibbled on by a misguided llama... I assure you, Melody's breasts look nothing like typical llamachow.

Along the way back, I had to pick up some pictures I had scanned for Mary (yes, she and I are still friends) which were at the house, and take them back to Mary. Melody and I drove down to my house, with its rather tallish grass and stuff on the porch and stuff all over the living room.

She was putting off all kinds of "appalled" waves. She didn't like it. I could tell she didn't like it. The five-minute visit was a bad idea. I checked to make sure the cats were OK, picked up Mary's pictures, and we got back in Melody's car and went to Mary's to drop the pictures off.

I was upset because she was appalled by the house. She was upset because, in my upset, I had grown silent. We eventually started talking, and after dropping off Mary's pictures, talked all the way back to Silver Spring.

I'm really sensitive about my house. It feels like the one solid thing that came out of my marriage, the one thing I can point to and say, this is mine! I live here! but I think Melody just doesn't understand it. She's from California, doesn't seem to understand bluegrass and dismisses the Blue Ridge Mountains as "toeknobs," whatever the fuck those are.

Hey, I LIVE HERE! This is my HOME. The only one I've known in my entire life, and damn if I'm going to be feeling ashamed of it. Sure, the grass is scruffy, there are empty cat litter canisters on the porch, and I have to clean it, but it's my home.

We eventually calmed down and talked some more, and realized that we don't have to think about houses (and into whose house one or the other of us might move some day) for quite a long time.

Still, I was hurting.

In other news, I bought a new tractor Saturday, a Husqvarna (which means "housewife" in Swedish -- they started out making sewing machines) which should be better at cutting the aforementioned grass. It was a reasonably good deal at Lowe's. Home Despot had only overpriced John Deeres and shitty no-name tractors. It will be ready tomorrow after work, so I will be a mowin' fool.