Today, in an effort to pretend I’m hale and hearty, I’ve been doing a little pre-spring spring cleaning. The house needs some refreshing and it’s highly unlikely that’s going to happen unless I kick it into gear and git’r'done, so to speak. I’ve even invested in some less-than-eco-friendly products in order to make the job easier today. I’ll feel guilty tomorrow, but tonight my shower will be sparkly with a minimum of elbow grease. And sometimes, I just have to be okay with the end justifying the means.

I hope everyone is managing to dodge the super-human cooties flying around out there. And if you caught the crud, I pray for your speedy recovery.

Well, truth be told, there ISN’T much fun in it, so a week or so ago I broke with the pack and added my own touches to make my desk feel like a space I can hang out in. I did this with thrift store finds, because who has the kind of money these days to blow on something as silly as workspace? I mean, you only sit at your desk for what, 8, 9 hours a day? Yeah, you get the point.

So, I didn’t spend very much, but it really did feel worth it. I found clay bowls with a clay toothbrush holder for under 2 bucks. The toothbrush holder now houses my pens and scissors, while one bowl holds my post-its and whiteout and the other my paperclips. They didn’t know they were going to be put to use in this setting, but none of them seems offended and that’s really all that matters.

I nearly ordered a whiteboard from Office Supply for my cube except, well, I hate whiteboards. With a passion. I think they’re hideous and therein lies the problem. I can’t have more than one or two hideous items in my peripheral view at any one time without my head exploding. So, instead I bought a biggish picture frame, mounted some cute pages of scrapbooking paper under the glass – et voila! A non-whiteboard I can be happy with, where I can write my "thought of the day" without feeling like it’s being written on a wall of a bus station ladies room.

Hope this fuels some thought for folks sitting in cube-land. Just because you’re sitting in a gray shoebox doesn’t mean you can’t surround yourself with some modicum of charm.

Today a friend’s daughter and her baby checked in to a homeless shelter. Now, ordinarily my heart would be breaking for this young woman and her baby. I would offer her space in my home to camp out. But, well, not this time because she WANTS to stay at the shelter. In this instance the young woman opted to move out of her mother’s home and into a shelter, calling it, “a good opportunity for,” her and for her baby.

Say what?

In what alternate reality is a homeless shelter viewed as a good opportunity? Unless you’re living in horrendous conditions, such as on the street or in a home where you’re being mistreated, a homeless shelter shouldn’t be considered a step up.

This brat isn’t being mistreated. She wasn’t thrown out onto the street, either, and her mother claims to be an advocate for the homeless. By all intents and purposes, this child grew up sheltered and spoiled, but apparently there is a program in place that if you’re “homeless” for a span of time, the state will help you move into an apartment of your own. So, basically she is stealing two beds from the shelter and using this as a means to better her situation. I mean, who wouldn’t love a brand new apartment on state dollars? And to hell with the battered women/children who literally have nothing, nowhere and no one – first come, first served, right? Let ‘em sleep in the snow, because this girl WILL get her new place.

I can’t help but hope that my tax dollars might be spent on people who actually need it, but this sure isn’t setting my mind at ease.

I guess my vision of what homeless means is different than some. I believe that if you have a family who loves you and is willing to let you stay with them, you aren’t exactly the lady pushing a shopping cart full of all her worldly possessions down Colfax. I believe that if you’re texting all your newfound “homeless” status updates on Facebook with your f*cking iPhone, you’re not “needy.” I believe that you don’t take shelter space from someone who really is in need simply because you’re too lazy/stupid/self-entitled to even try to get an actual job.

• Retire from Corporate America and have a real, honest-to-goodness working farm that is nearly completely self-sustained AND sustainable (being self-sustained for a month isn’t quite the same as being self-sustained for a lifetime, hence the "sustainable").
• Run in a marathon and not look like a total pansy doing it.
• Learn how to milk a cow (or a goat).
• Own a hand pump for my well and also a windmill.
• Figure out how to keep the smoke from billowing back into the house when the south wind is blowing.

Short and sweet, right? I’m sure if I spend lots of time thinking about it, I can come up with more, but I don’t really have a long wish list . I’m sure this is simply because I am happy with where I am right now.

The rain and the air – it’s like the prairie’s gift to me.

See, when we placed the chimney for the woodstove on the south side of the house, the pitch of the roof was such that there was no way to brace a taller chimney, so we never got even close to “3 feet higher than the highest point of the roof.”

I’ve read that there are turbine-type chimney caps that can keep the chimney’s draw when it’s windy, so if anyone has used such a novelty, can you please let me know if you had any luck with it? I am scared to death of heights, but I will happily (sort of) climb my butt up the ladder if I can keep from setting off the smoke alarm.

I’m really kind of tired of my hair smelling like sausage every Saturday. *sigh*

The energy here is distinctly maternal. I know the house is feminine because it would be impossible to feel so nurtured if the house were masculine. Through the years, she has never revealed her name to me, so I call her simply, “House.”

She loves me, the house. She knows I revere the strength of her walls and hold sacred the panned out places in front of the kitchen sink where a long ago woman washed dishes and babies while she looked out across the prairie.

The house isn’t MY house; if there is ownership, perhaps it is she who owns me, for surely she comforts me and brings me peace even when the world outside is a whirlwind of havoc. Like a dear friend, she offers me solace in times of trouble and shares my happiness in times of joy. Already old, she will be here to see me to my own old age one day, and when I leave this earth, she will be here waiting for the next soul seeking a home that is more than just a house.

Yeah, it’s been one of THOSE kinds of weeks. When my hair has behaved and life is moving at an even keel and everything is set to perpetually go my way. I’ve lost weight, my pants are getting baggy-ish and I pretty much love everything in my closet.

I really, really needed a week like this.