stealing toilet paper, mooching chocolate chip cookies and missing home

that title probably sums up this week of my life--or is about to sum it up. so i went down to the boardwalk again tonight to write and ended up writing 6 pages in my journal. i won't bore you all with the hodge-podge of ramblings that i scrawled down on 4 of those pages--but i'll let you have a peek at numbers 5 and 6. they are of course, hopelessly romantic as i seem to become when im sitting on the benches at 10pm looking out at the city. ugh. gross. i know. but just let me gush awhile. i daydream about my future way too much--but i kind of have to slip out from reality every now and then-but doesn't everyone. so here goes.

"A few nights ago I downloaded 'Both Sides Now' by Joni Mitchell. Partly because i just watched 'love actually' and i want to be like emma thompson and partly because it's a song i just cry to. is it bad that some nights i know- even look forward to turning out the lights, putting my headphones on, kicking the wrinkles and kinks out of my sheets and cry myself ot sleep? it's not a bad cry- but it does hurt a lot sometimes. I went to sleep dreaming of my house with the red door--in 15 years or so with wood floors underneath my bare feet and my husbands feet sticking to the floor as he gets up and creaks his way to the kitchen on saturday mornings to make waffles. my house smells of orange peels and cinnamon and week-old wildflowers. in the window lima beans are growing and a red kettle screeches in the kitchen where darjeeling tea is ready to be steeped. the light is peering through the parallel cracks in the blinds--beckoning my eyelids to flutter open as my dog petey jump onto the foot of my bed and with his wet nose, nuzzles my one uncovered foot off the bed. i have a wooden spice rack and a box full of recipes that my sister gave to me one year for christmas. my house is cozy with love, radiating and warm and the timer in the kitchen goes off for the french press. i pull my foot under the covers to hid and burrow down like a butterfly begging to stay in its cocoon. i hate moist noses and am also embarrassed by the sight of the chipping paint on my toenails. i pick it off when i'm anxious. petey's warm body sinks into the covers and curls into a little ball. he kicks and cycles in his sleep--like a little fox running from a hound. he snores too... thank God i didn't get a pug-he would've really caused a noise.
i hear billie holiday drifting in on the citrusy air from the kitchen but i roll over, curl up even tighter under my layers and layers of covers and slip away.

petey's gone, the window's open and the breeze is rustling my hair and whipping it over my eyes. i brush my loose, tangled hair away, close my eyes and feel the rich, lavish impression of a kiss on my eyelids and a bristle of scruff brush across my hand. the smell of cinnamon and smoke mingles with the fresh dry breeze and i lap it into my lungs.
i tell him i hate being tickled.
the waffles are ready."