Saturday, December 15, 2012
My brush went dry
I allowed other influences in, that I felt over powered me.
Who am I ? that I needed to be put into place? by them?
I am Butahouse
Evidently they found me as competition or ? something that they felt the need to make me stop whatever I was doing. What was I doing I have to ask? I am a scribbler, I am not paid, I am of my own works in my abode. Do not represent anyone or any product, god forbid, don't do that. You may insult someone, and not even know it. Praise and Fun, blogging on a product is not tolerable, unless you buy it from your keeper. I did not know I was owned. That my money was so imperative, to one who is 100 times with. Not without. My house is my house. I do not live in Beverly Hills, I am not a house wife. I am not a house husband.
My mansion lives inside my head. My entire main floor does not equal anothers bathroom. Who they deem, my bathroom isn't quite big enough, for one. Crickets. My main floor is bigger than all the apartments I rented in the last 16 yrs. It's over big for me. I get lost all by turning around. I do not have to walk 20yards and ask why did I enter this room? football field to find my coffee cup.
My house is humble. It is not Better house with gardens, pools and chandeliers. Not a domain that you need tin cans with strings to find your family members are you HOME?
Crumbling plaster yes, horse hair, mud packed barn wood, under my carpet upstairs yes.
Real wood thick trimmed everything with 17 coats of paint yes. Fugly not yet finished real wood floors, 30 yr old carpet I stripped myself. 700 staples dug in, center floor, not bordering, taken out, me on my knees. No one to aid me, no one to hire it done for me.
The cranky floors still today, that I walk upon just fine. They will be " finished" someday.
My house is an old Sister, born in 1924. She is frayed. She is not perfect. This why I fell for her. She is Butahouse. I am 3rd to live in this dwelling. Two families raised in this house, prior to me, living here. The woman who lived here for 51 years, had secrets only known to her, her at the time widowed. She age 93 confessed to me, the day we met, to sign the papers. I have a secret. Everyone sitting at this long table, her adult children present drooling waiting for their portion of ching.
She reached across the table, to take my hand, with her perfectly manicured nails in fruit punch red, she told me her secret. "I hide my Lemon drops in the dishwasher" my kids bought me that dishwasher years ago and I have never ran it, it's brand new for you. If you find sugar inside it, it's because I hide my candy stash inside it, top rack. I have to, because if I don't my family, when they visit, they will eat all my candy. She winked at me and smiled, grasping my hand softly. Marty her name. She had me at Hello.
The house mine, key in hand, this weeks later. I came across a plastic baggie stuffed, tucked away in a hiding place. The baggie incredibly old, the contents " Lemon Drops"
Crusty old crumbly lemon drops, a paper clip, two rubber bands and one more thing.
A tiny 2 inch tall " Cross" - made of metal, silver tone, with letters imprinted on it
" God Bless this House"
I found out by a neighbor soon after that Marty died, she died in her sleep. I was beyond saddened. The neighbor to say, she loved that house, it was her home, she was not at home, after the house sold. The Cross hangs in my garage, on a wall that Marty's Husband created. I do not buy Lemon Drops. I do not need to. My house is filled always with Lemons, lemonade, lemon aroma, it always my favorite. Sweetarts I buy by the bag and hide them on myself. Tart, Sweet and addictive. I do not put them in my dishwasher. I do though randomly wink and smile as I walk this house, my yard, and think of Fruit Punch colored nail polish. Only Marty could wear at 93 yrs young, she to share her secrets.
Color hers, she planted in the front and backyard - White, Purple and Orange
We have a lot in common, - time to get back to, Ms. Marty. She inspires me, she never promised me a dishwasher, she promised me Lemon Drops. And I found them, no longer her secret, they were found priceless.
She was an artist, she painted, she loved to paint. Her paintings hung in the house when I was shown it, I asked and the real estate agent said, they are promised to her children.
My blog is my House. If you want to hate on me. If you think I duped you. If you think, shaking my head, I did something to you personally with malice in my heart.
You never knew me to begin with. Rich comes from within, not from ..
Butahouse is back.
Color Color Color
Me who I am and will be blogging soon - the scribbler holding a wet paint brush
No more Dry
Posted by Vita at 8:30 AM