But is it hand-selected with or without wrists?
I have a recurring notion of a whole flock of tiny houses as a dwelling. My tiny house, my boyfriend's tiny house, our books' tiny house, our lounging on the couch with the dog's tiny house, and the barn that houses the kitchen, the enormous decadent bathroom, the party space, and my studio.
(And since this is the Pacific Northwest, covered raised walkways between everything. As it is, I live in a tiny studio, because I am cheap and change averse. I would like more space, if only so I could have more room for book piles)
My mom did not have easy uncomplicated pregnancies, but modern medicine (as found in small town Alaska in the early eighties) WORKED. My brother and I are happy, reasonably well adjusted adults, and so are our parents. Modern medicine -- it's amazing.
If I ruled the world, it would be an even chance whether I was deposed over the architectural reforms or the 'self-absorbed asshole with too much money' tax.
Today in women living their best lives: the woman who sat beside me on the bus with gorgeous henna on her hands which included portraits of Indian women who looked smug. The rest of her outfit was on point too, but smug lady hand portraits.
That sounded so good, that that's what I made for dinner tonight. (With some turmeric and mustard powder, since I was out of caraway seed. Which isn't the same thing at all, but turned out to be really good.)
The cat I grew up with would stand at the door in the dead of winter and beg to go out. Not summer. No, then she slept on my head. Specifically the dead of winter, something about the cold and the snow and the dark tripped some trigger in her furry little brain and it was all, "I am a Siberian tiger, I must commune with the dark forces of nature." She would also stalk moose (and chase the neighbor's dogs).
The vet tried to talk us into keeping her in, and we explained that on such nights she would slip out any time the door was opened. And the vet looked at the tiny ball of long-haired, calico fluff, and said dubiously, "well, I guess she's furry enough."
She lived to be sixteen and I still miss her. But not having her sleep on my head, when it was hot.
My handwriting keeps trying to turn into my mother's. Considering that I made a conscious decision to model my handwriting on my seventh grade choir teacher's elegantly spiky script, Mom's more generously curved capitals are vaguely alarming. Perhaps subconscious is still trying to forge her signature long after any need was gone.
Make a list, and once the list is made (and you've checked 'make a list' off the list you have made), pick one. Maybe the most urgent, maybe the one that annoys you the most, whatever and very gently say to yourself, "Why don't you do x for a little while? You just have to do it for five minutes and then you can stop if you want."
Usually an hour later I have a clean kitchen. Or laundry sorted. Or whatever it was that I didn't want to do.
My father made up serial stories about a Scottish sailor in the eighteenth century named Alexander Selkirk. I was shocked in high school or college to realize that Alexander Selkirk was a historical figure, though not as far as I know as prone to liberating slave ships as my Dad's version.