Today I stood at the foot of the driveway and looked at my home. I admired it, turned my head a bit and admired it some more. Dang funny thing, this love for an 800-square-foot slightly listing house. Bad enough I am crazy in love with my dogs but my house, too?

Is there a medication for such irrational responses? But then I once had a secret crush on Ted Kaczinski. And I would marry Gloria Steinem in a twinkle, if she were so inclined. And if I were so inclined. And if I weren’t already married.

Oh yes, the house. It was built in 1929 and it shows. It does indeed list. Increasingly.

Soon the kitchen will be out in the garage and our bed will be in the bathroom. This is serious business, but I have slept in bathrooms before. And cooked in garages.

Outside of lifting the foundation on our shoulders and slipping in some really giant shims, the remedy is beyond us.

From where I sit at the computer, I am able to see clear outside through the “gap” at the bottom of the front door. I am figuring that it would be impossible for us to die of monoxide gas because this house fairly draws great gusts of fresh air through its gaps and malformations. Winter and summer. This also is a sign of sanctuary to all insects and small critters. C’mon in.

Looking out any window is a trip rife with lively distortions and wavy lines. I never did like to look at life as she really is, so this can only be to my advantage. Looking through this old glass, the inn next door resembles the Eiffel Tower, if I catch it just right.

If I turn my head rapidly, I can see cruise ships steaming up and down Cedar Street. Magic in that old irregular glass.

For years, the water in the bathtub ran rapidly when the kitchen faucet was turned on. Brian fixed it last year. I kind of miss it. Not the water loss, but the sense of power it gave me. Voila! Water in the shower.

On these knotty-pine walls are masterworks of art. We have even framed some of them by pasting a mat over a particularly unique pattern of knots. There is a droopy dog’s face next to the piano. Waterfalls. Giant insects. Myriad smiling faces. Lots of crucifixes, some with corpuses. Lie in bed, cruise the ceiling and enter the Louvre.

There can be no secrets. Drop a feather on the wood floor and it resounds as if a painting has fallen from the wall. We have thought of wall-to-wall carpeting, something soft and snowy white, but a close friend has disallowed it. But then she likes anything old and creepy. She likes me.