i'll order the grilled life w/ a side of boring, plz

What made the other day a good day

+ was sliding into the carport in front of our apartment right when this song faded out
and remembering that i forgot the only pair of shoes i owned at work
and not caring a bit about it

+ was not having to insert my key into the lock because my husband was ready to open the door and throw his arms around me with a hearty "Hey, sport!" and a few forehead kisses for good measure

+ was this very same husband asking me to serenade him on the ukulele and me obliging, playing La Vie En Rose three times in a row, followed by some Lana that ... didn't go very well

+ was tripping over clothes, dog toys, and Peace Tea cans on the way to that broken couch of ours to talk about how we are going to save money now that I quit my job and laughing that at least I would have more time to pick up the things I am tripping over

+ was sitting on the floor watching a Dakota Fanning movie and legitimately yelling at the TV about how unrealistic the movie was because, first of all, her parents didn't seem to care where she was the entire movie and second of all she spent nearly the whole film in the sun and didn't have to apply sunscreen to her porcelain skin once and was burned a total of zero times despite waking up suddenly and hopping on her bike to the beach more than one time. Maybe she has a vaccine I don't know about, or maybe I just think about skincare a lot.

Anyway.
The unglamorous life that looks terrible when you take pictures of it is my favorite kind these days,
because for some reason what bleach trays and way too crispy chocolate chip cookies are doing for my soul these days is so unbelievably fulfilling that i cannot possibly portray it in any other way than with words.

Sure, there are certainly those beautiful moments where your hair looks especially lovely
and you are barefoot, wearing your favorite dress in a place you rarely frequent
but those moments don't mean as much to me right now in life,
they don't hold as much weight as picking dog fur off my husband's shoulders as he gets up from the carpet from playing with Bruno and letting him lick his face
or calling the IRS for the seventeenth time about our tax return because it sort of feels like a secret mission that we are involved in and the hold music they play isn't half bad,
even when you have to listen to it for four hours (true story).

I'm learning that having it "all together" doesn't look the same on everybody.
I like it.
A lot.

It makes me love all of the human beings and all of their stories
and all of their wrinkled, cat hair-covered sweaters and messy haircuts
and wonder about all the things that make them feel whole that aren't measurable by other people like me.
You know,
like my bleach trays and bad Lana del Rey renditions.

I love being human.

xo.