Saturday was one of those idyllic days. I spent hours lounging on my parents' patio, sipping coffee, devouring wholewheat pancakes topped with raspberries freshly picked from my mom's garden, and watching the puppies run, tumble, and finally collapse in the shade. It was a day where I thought that yes, I could do this. I could move to the suburbs. I wouldn't miss the noise of the traffic or the police sirens (note to self: living two blocks away from the police station does not mean you will be extra safe, it means that you will be very annoyed - daily - by sirens.) I wouldn't miss the tiny square footage of our shoebox in the sky. I certainly wouldn't miss living in a building with so many asshats (like the one who smeared a cheeseburger all over the floor of one of the elevators early Saturday morning. The cheeseburger was not just dropped - it was smeared. All over. Oh, and our building isn't cleaned on the weekend, so the cheeseburger was there until this morning.)
I guess I've swung over from wanting to move back downtown to wanting to move out to the suburbs. I have dreams, people. Big dreams. Dreams of window boxes filled with fresh herbs; dreams of a puppy run in the backyard; dreams of a huge garden with lettuce and zucchini and tomatoes and sunflowers and maybe even a pumpkin patch if there is room. It's entirely possible that this is just a summer dream (I'm all about the sitting on the patio in the sun, I'm not so much about the shovelling snow) but for now it is what is filling my head.