Domestic Culture, or A leaky room of her own

On Monday, we found streak of mold growing in the back of our closet. Apparently, an errant shelf screw had found not a wall stud, but a bathroom pipe. (Oops!) So much for the elaborate closet system that Adam and I proudly installed all by ourselves last fall. We called a plumber. We called a carpenter. We whacked out the rotten bit of drywall and draped hanging clothes all over the house.

I carted off the photo albums. (Thankfully, these weren't damaged, but they'd been doing a boffo job of hiding the streak.) I sat at my desk and tried to calculate what these emergency repairs might cost. Staring up at the ceiling, I decided my estimate was too low. Because there, in the ceiling plaster, was proof of a giant new leak.

On Tuesday night, I was alone and lonely and our farmhouse was awash with ghosts. Like mute party guests, they floated in corners, wearing my slacks and Adam's suits.

Unnerved by the silence (and the leaks), I blasted this CD and was startled by how quickly the ghosts and the anxieties disappeared. The right song and a pair of high-heeled boots moved me to dance, first in the kitchen, and then all over the house.

Was feeling giddy, feeling tall. Feeling a little crazy. And deeply, deeply happy.

So that's my writing formula this week: Boots. EFO. Inexplicable energy.