Bag Lady or Princess?

Sorry I have been away lately.
I've been practicing the fine art of bag lady-ness...If there is such a thing. Better yet, I just coined that catchy little phrase to describe the condition of ones fashion consciousness when they just don't give a damn.
Which pretty much points to me most of the time.

It's okay.
I've actually come to admire those ladies whose hair dye has faded into soft silver...those wise women who refuse to wear bras, makeup, uncomfortable shoes and attractive clothing.

But you, see, my stretched out yoga pants, paint spattered tee shirt and worn out sneakers have simply become my uniform. This is a perfect ensemble for a day of hammering, fetching, waiting, sweating, mowing ,and catching gnats in your eyelids. Nice jeans and Cross Your Heart bras are so very inappropriate. No one wants that pesty underwire to come creeping up while you're holding a 2x4 above your head in a mud hole. And one inconscious wipe of a caulk-sticky hand can ruin a pair of expensive pants in a split second.

Do I need makeup to measure wood? Or to find the hammer? No.
Do I need deodorant to go outside and bake in the hot sun and ride the 4 wheeler to fetch lumber? No.
Do I need to blow dry my hair, do my nails, or pluck my brows to haul the 4 pound hammer across the yard or plug in the miter saw? Absolutely not.

I must admit right now that my comfort level is practically perfect. So much, in fact, that I went into town wearing my uniform yesterday. Something I would never have done in my old hometown. Despite the trouble of rolling on a sports bra, I went "as is". Oh, believe me, it was so nice to break down those walls of pretentiousness and stressful fashion preparation.

Sunday we did laundry and although I barely had a clean thing to wear, I was the best dressed person in the whole place. And, forgive me, but I felt like a princess in a meth lab. Apparently, the bag-lady-ness has caught on rather well in these parts. Although I must say, there are definitely different levels of it, most of which I would never stoop low enough to adopt on a daily basis. In public.

Living loose like an old hippie has just made me appreciate the times I can style my hair, wear nice outfits, apply eye makeup and sport some jewelry. Being comfortable does not mean I've neglected my hygiene or my manners.

I'm still a lady.
Though in the quiet of my little forest home, it's bag-lady-ness at its best...

A Rainy Time-Out

The rain hits the roof here in soft snaps and the woods look wet and thick with life. Everything is green. Except for a slight part in the treetops where strips of inky blue clouds announce there is a sky. I feel as though I'm in a snow globe, but with rain falling. Like a terrarium ...and I 'm the tiny plastic figure in the little house under an umbrella of massive leaves.

There is a comfort in rainy days. Time slows down. Plans are changed. Yet, floors beg to be mopped and pillows plumped and crooked pictures on the walls make you question your good taste. The dog sleeps. The  husband reads. The big clock ticks louder and faster ...and you wallow in your blessings. You breathe. Pray. Give thanks. Take total advantage of this interruption of a busy life.

I have a box of papers to file. Things I've stuffed away " for later". Important bills that need attention and receipts that still suffer wrinkles from a hurried stash into a crowded purse. I will listen to the rain and organize them...as soon as I finish my coffee.

My coffee is Coconut Cream Pie. A new gourmet flavor by Folgers that seduced me in the aisle at WalMart by merely it's smell alone. It's pretty good. A bit coco-nutty with not a lot of creaminess and no indication of pie whatsoever. But it's coffee. And it's hot. And I need it.

On days like this when I have the chance to reflect and ponder, it seems strange living here. Or so it must seem to other people. Why would I give up a beautiful big house in a quiet country neighborhood to live in a little cabin stuck in the middle of the redneck woods? 

Well, all I know is, it feels like I have lived here forever. That my wings led me to this place. That my nest is meant to be built here. That my roots cry to be planted here. That my heart doesn't care if its carpet and cushions and extra space to spread out. That I am content with a tin roof and wooden floors and a  living/ kitchen/ dining combination that seems to work quite well for me.

I'll be honest. I do miss my bath tub. Giant, perfume-y bubbles, a water- spotted magazine and body wash that smells like a tropical island. A fifteen minute soak in the hottest water I can stand...then a lather of lotion and pj's. 

(Yesterday while at the feed store, my husband offered to buy me a galvanized water trough to use as a bath until our addition is built. It would be hooked up outside the kitchen porch and equipped with hot and cold running water and a little stopper on a chain.)

I should have said yes.

Speaking of pajamas, they are practically my choice of day wear. A pair of Old Navy drawstring pants are adequate for sitting on the porch as well as for digging ditches. And my chubby Nana arms are finally seeing some sun. Where tank tops were taboo before, I now wear them without fear of being seen (and ridiculed). Anyone approaching our place can be heard early enough for me to go running to the house and flip on a tee shirt and Capri's. So far, I have only had to make that Olympic sprint once. And it was worth the fresh eggs from my husbands cousin.

My coffee is getting cold and so are my toes. The cold front coming through with the rain has forced me to find my fuzzy black slippers in my makeshift under-the-bed closet.

Here they are!

Nothing quite as cozy as a rainy day in a little red cabin. With the man and the dog that you love.

Thank you, God.

The Tinker and I

I know there are rare occasions when I say stupid things. Days when I am extra tired, misinformed, or looking for a good laugh. But lately my husband, who is usually very methodic and intelligent, has spit out some really stupid things.

For example, a few days ago he was doing some work outside and I was watching. Sometimes I learn a lot by watching him tinker. Other times I'm just there for company.

He was diligently filling things with gear oil, lubing joints and adjusting doohickeys. 

"Got a crescent wrench?" He says.

It took me a minute to respond. 

What I really wanted to say was, "Why, yes,dear, as a matter of fact, I do. I always keep one tucked into my bra or my back pocket. A girl never knows when a crescent wrench emergency might arise."

I just looked at him like he was stupid.

And then I scooted quickly to the truck where his tool bag rested. Bingo.

Later that evening he decided to do some measurements on the garage he is preparing to build. I offered to hold the tape measure. Then he asks me:

"What is half of 39 and 7/8 or a quarter of that fractional multiplier on the diagonal?" Or something like that.

I just looked at him like he was stupid.

And then I went in the house for a cookie.

This morning while I was sleeping, my husband covered me lightly with a sheet and I woke up. It was 2 a.m.

"Hi." He says softly,"you wanna go outside and see the full moon?"

I just looked at him like he was stupid.

Then I realized that was the most beautiful, romantic thing I had ever heard.

I realize, too, that our lives are changing. In this new place,we are new people. Less formal, more relaxed, bigger dreamers and go-ahead-and-do-ers. 

I may not always enjoy the work and sweat and carrying the crescent wrench. I may resent the math problems, the bugs, the piles of planning...and the stupid questions.

But I do love that I am needed and included in my husband's everyday routines.

Even if it's just to gaze at the stars.

Keeping It Real

I awake and glance at the clock with one open eye. Six a.m. My husband sits in his recliner at the foot of the bed, studying YouTube videos of barns, the table lamp glowing softly across the room.

My sleepy eyes do a slow sweep of my new house. Pretty small. Some would call it tiny. I prefer the word cozy.

Minus the fact that it doesn't have any modern appliances, I feel comfortable here. That tub of dishwasher packets my daughter Becca gave me will have to sit awhile. Totally sink washing for now. And my wicker hamper grows fat with dirty clothes until a drive to the laundromat.

Even my harvest gold electric range is missing the handle to its oven door. But plump, flakey biscuits turn out just as delicious.

Yesterday we installed our window air conditioner- a white box-shaped unit that has served as a makeshift end table for the past few weeks - holding beer bottles and dinner plates and tons of tractor magazines. The threat of 90 degree weather made one thing for certain - this table goes into the window - no discussion needed.

My deep freeze still sits on the back porch...(a stoop really)...the top laid out with a table cloth and a assortment of tools. Much like an operating table, ready at a moments notice to drill, measure, saw and hammer. I had to move it all yesterday so I could reach inside and get a Popsicle.

But I don't mind. Too much.

Maybe it's because I know these things are only temporary. That with time the addition will be built and  I will be spoiled by modern convenience.

For now, I stretch, stare at the ceiling, and look over at my husband.

"We live here," I say.

And we laugh.