Home Again, Jiggety Jog

A view not found on the Arkansas River

We're home again! The flowers and the dog and the homesitting Boys are still alive and well, and it was wonderful to see the checkerboard fields of home under the plane as our puddle-jumper jumped through the storm clouds. (Whoa. We were in the exit row and I found myself frantically reading the instructions for popping the escape hatch.)

Good as it was to see home turf, there are things I'll miss about our home-away-from-home in the nation's capital. In no particular order, I'll think nostalgically about these little luxuries in the hotel:

The coffeemaker. Even though I've always only wanted one coffeemaker (the one I don't own yet) I've never really coveted one of these single-serving models. I like coffee verrry strong, and this didn't seem to give enough latitude for adding just a few more grounds. But oh boy, was this coffee good, and brewed in the time it took for me to put on my earrings. I needed something hot to drink because...

...this was the actual number on our thermostat. How do I say this with gentility? Ladies of my age sometimes have a wee bit of difficulty sleeping through the night during warm summer nights, but it's expensive to cool a monstrous home such as ours when the exterior temperature is in the three digits, so I love being in a place where someone else's name is on the utility bill: We cranked that baby down to where I was comfortable and I slept blissfully, thank you very much. Of course, part of the reason I slept so blissfully was because of this:

It turns out that our 20-year-old mattress isn't quite as comfy as I assumed it was, at least in comparison to this pillow-topped wonder. When I told Husband that I wanted a king-sized bed, he agreed, but pointed out this size mattress would mean I couldn't open my closet door. Hmmm. I guess I have a hard decision to make. 

The one hotel amenity I really don't want in my own home is this:

It turns out that when it's illuminated and magnified eight bajillion times, the speck of mascara I've been trying to scrub off my eyelid is a freckle. Or an age spot, since I haven't noticed it in the last half-century. Freckle, age spot; potato, potahto. Either way, I don't need to see it.

Today I woke up back in the House on the Corner, and while I'll miss the big monuments and little luxuries, it's good to be home.

It's where my heart is. And my clean clothes.