While it’s true that I’m only technically homeless and I don’t really live in a van down by the river, I am living much of the time out of my van. House-sitting means 1) cable TV; 2)kitchen amenities; 3) a soft bed and 4) a parking space. But house-sitting is not home; as grateful as I am for these temporary shelters, I miss being weirded out by mystery condiments in my OWN fridge. The same oozy, sticky bottles and jars of unrecognizable goop are somehow less gross when they’re mine.I miss having a place to store my clothes. Even if the hundred-pound closet doors in my condo did roll off their tracks and bonk me on the head and fingers, the system far outranked the Rubbermaid boxes I’ve been dragging from house to house. I miss folding t-shirts and rolling socks into compact little balls of tidiness. I miss hanging my garments by color. Also, where the hell is my brown A-line skirt?
I don't believe that I'm plagued by hardship, just a little scattered. My shoes are like foster children, all placed in different homes--a few at Charlie's, a basketful in the Vanbulance, some in mini-storage (probably buried under that #%$@%$ brown skirt). My cat lives in one house, my dog in another. My snail mail comes to Laural and Tom's, my email to school, except for some that comes to cathybelben@gmail.com which I can't access at school because of the filter, nor at the current house-sitting job because they don't have a computer.
Thus, these are my constants: work, the Vanbulance, my cell phone, my friends, and the gym. My home-in-progress doesn't count because it is anything but constant, although some of you philosophers out there might argue that change is the only true constant. I check development every day when I go to pick up my mail, marveling both at how cool it is to watch my plan materialize and also at how many steps there are in the process.
The good news is two-fold, 1) the foundation is done! and 2) standing on a mound of dirt that approximates the height of my second story, I can see Bellingham Bay. It's very tiny and far away, but it means I'm not wasting money on the veranda that'll stick out of the master bedroom. Also, I'm now aware of the view that I'm "stealing" from the neighbors. I'll try to feel bad about that.James told me that building a house means a constantly shifting sense of space and perspective, and it’s true. After the excavation, the footprint for the house seemed really big. Then the footings were poured and it shrank—so much so that I thought they’d made a mistake reading the plans. The forms went up and the rooms expanded. The forms came down and the rooms seem small again. According to James, this illusion will continue: the studs will go up and the spaces will enlarge, then the drywall and subsequent shrinkage, etc. I hope someday to have a house that’s just the right size. Like Goldilocks, only without the bears. And with lots of closet space.
