The first month of this new year is on its last legs and I have slept in my own bed, in the year 2013, seven times! If I hadn't pulled out a calendar and actually counted the days, I would have guessed a lower number. And even though this current incarnation of "my" bed has only been mine for four months, I really like it, and I miss it when I'm away. It's a futon actually, on a raised and slatted platform, and my pillows (just two) are like little rectangular clouds under my weary head, so I get this whole firm and comfy-cozy thing going all at once. Add to this my organic cotton sheets, my handmade quilt (every inch of which was lovingly sewn and quilted by my second-oldest sister) and my extra blanket made from recycled saris, and you've got a pretty darn dreamy, sleepy-time adventure. So why, pray tell, when I'm nestled all snug as a bug in my proverbial bed rug, am I now pining away for something as silly as...television?
We don't have cable here in Casey in California's home in the Valley, but three out of the four homes I've slept in the other twenty-four nights this year, sure did. Philosophically, I'm not a fan of having a television in the bedroom, but man, I surely have enjoyed it -- philosophical viewpoint aside. It's sort of decadent, no? Burrowing into your nest for the night with the soft glow and low murmur of an old black and white movie in the background. Or the welcome company of a beloved film you've seen so many times you can recite the dialogue, word for word. Even just a well-worn anthology that feels like family or a long lost friend.
Ah, who am I kidding? Heading back out to the dez this morning which means woohoo! Project Runway tonight!
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