I’ve learned to do things while living on my own that I never, ever thought I would do.
I’ve located the water “shut-off” valve in the basement, and can turn off the water to the entire house if by some crazy stroke of luck my OTHER toilet needs replaced.
I can start my push mower on the sixth pull of the cord, and my right arm is now bulging like Popeye’s. (sans the tattoo.) I can empty the clippings, rake the apples every weekend, and gather ALL the garbage and recyclables every Tuesday night.
And last week, I made a trip to my accountant. Yes. I have an accountant. Okay, she’s a great friend and might be helping me in her spare time, but she’s LEGIT. She’s helped me find my own way out of a tax pickle that I was forced into last April, and has guided me in many ways things that have to do with money.
She recommended (among many other things) that I designate a space in my home for my “writing”; an office, so to speak. Surprisingly, she didn’t believe that my working on the couch, the dining room table, my bed or on the front porch would be acceptable to the taxman. Go figure.
There’s a lovely, small sitting room on the second floor that includes a set of stairs that leads to a loft. The loft has been transformed by Bitchy and Sassy into a warm and cozy room for two- with matching twin beds, dressers and other cool accessories compliments of Big Lots.
The sitting room is going to be mine.
I have been wondering what I could possibly use as a desk. I know I’ve been complaining about money (WHINING EXCESSIVELY) and I promise to stop soon. (I’m ALMOST ready to right the ship…) However, until I reach the spot where I can pay ALL my bills each month and still eat, I might whine a little.
But, back to the dilemma of a desk; where would I find one? I certainly couldn’t buy one, and I was not about to ask anyone else for any more favors. (Even my pride has its limits, it appears.)
Then I got an email.
It was from one of my beloved aunts. She had some furniture that belonged to Baba, and had one piece that she thought I needed to have.
It was a vanity.
It had been used by each of the seven daughters, and was the one piece from the bedroom set that was in decent condition. But there was something else. When she and my cousin were sorting out her furniture, they noticed something special. On the outside of one the drawers, someone had written her name.
And that someone was my mother.
As I sit upon the stool with a few tears in my eyes and run my hands across this perfect excuse for a desk I realize something: that a mother’s arms can sometimes reach the whole way across the universe.
Especially if she has a little help from her sister.