WTF home? Where you at?

Way back in April I ranted something about where my home was or wasn't. Or something to that effect. Any of you remember that?

Me neither. Not really. But there was a lot of bile, gall - neither of which I or my body have control over on account of that missing gall bladder and my liver being, well, the alcohol preserved piece of dead tissue that it probably is - some brimstone (I'm just throwing that in, because I like the word), and a little bit on books - my first love in this life.

I think my green bathrobe also might have made an appearance in that post. Like it used to do all the time. In fact, we haven't had one of those in a while. What's up with the silence of the green bathrobe? Dude.

(As a distracting aside, now I kind of want to write a book titled The Silence of the Green Bathrobe and Other Adventures about a gang of badass mice who live in the numerous pockets of that garb and rule the neighborhood. But we all know what happens when I hit that 10 000 to 25 000 word mark. Oh well.)

Once again, I'm thinking about the concept of home. Not only because I, again, over a lovely braai with some truly dear friends, had to explain that my home is not in Finland (that's just where my ma and pa built their flesh-colored house. Not kidding about the color, Mom just won't listen. Maybe me writing about it to complete strangers will make more of an impact come the time to repaint. Mom, it is flesh-colored. It is.), but right here in South Africa. For better and for worse, within these Mexican Sand-colored (oh, the irony) walls. I'm not so sure about the military-colored exterior with sickeningly Tuscan leanings though. It's too ugly to be anyone's home. It's why the word residence was invented.

Apparently, I have some issues with certain colors as well. And Tuscany. Who knew?

Well, I did, about Tuscany that is, and people who've never been to Tuscany trying to mimic its architecture and going horribly wrong and ending somewhere between Disney- and Graceland. But not the colors. That's a complete surprise. Wonder what Freud would have to say on that? I bet it would be something interesting and just a little off-putting. Especially when you think of the potential connections that can be drawn from growing up in something flesh-colored to anything that Freud seems to have been very fond of...

But I'm veering. Badly. And to wombs and birth-canals, and such matters of the mysterious underworld. Oh the horror.

Moving on. Clear your mind's palate. And stop thinking of the house that I did some of my growing up in in those terms. Thanks.

I'm also thinking of the concept of home, because in a couple of months we'll be getting guests galore, back to back, from three different countries all of which I've called home at some point in my life. And now, practically simultaneously, we have received questions from each set of guests regarding what we would like for them to bring with them. Something we have been missing.

From home.

Or, in the case of my brothers, the question is more implied in the email that never arrived. Because that's how we communicate. We don't. That's how we know we're related. It's an ancient cycle of Finnish love and affection.

My problem now is that I can't think of one thing that I would want from those nations, let alone need.

I have found that Woolworth's organic coffee is good enough to be buried with, should it turn out that I'm in fact Egyptian and get to take something with me to the big ever after ruled by guys with catheads who walk sideways and wear skirts, so I don't need my fix of Finnish coffee. Woolies will do in cathead universe. Good wine has never and will never come out of Finland or Denmark. Awesomely bad tomato wine has emerged from Finland, but one whiff of that is enough, and I still have half a bottle left back in our little summer cottage in Tampere. France has some amazing, amazing wines, but so does SA and for half the price. So, surprisingly, no java nor bottles needed from anywhere.

I know. I'm just as aghast as you must be. And flabbergasted. And flummoxed. And a little bit gobsmacked. But not overly so. I draw the line at too much gobsmack.

What I do want need are two Brad Paisley CDs from America that Africa seems to have deposited in its black hole and the Danish iTunes disregards in the most terrible of manners, some Lubriderm lotion from Mexico because it would only be fitting that a Mexican lotion would be the most suited for the palest of the McPales, a specific brand of olive oil from Greece because we're snobby like that, some Fudge hair care from England to maintain the spikes spiky, and some freshly brewed STARBUCKS from anywhere. Just anywhere. Anywhere will do.

Anywhere.

The fact of the matter is that quietly over the years, without anyone, least of all me noticing, I seem to have become what I claim to be on my profile, right here on Blogger.

A child of a global world.

And the meaning of home has become something much broader than what it meant when I was first brought home from the hospital by my nervous parents (can you tell I'm the first?), during one of the coldest winter days in that century.

Now, I belong nowhere and anywhere.

What an odd sensation.

In my book this guy would be an undercover police officer trying to infiltrate the mice mafia. he wouldn't have too much luck, but he would always play an entertaining tune. 

What do you think of all this? Does it even make sense? Is the only relatable part the mention of my mother not listening to me when I said they should paint their house yellow and coming up with some excuse about not wanting to paint what was dark brown white? Or Starbucks?

It's been quiet here in the Extranjera command center. And although I can't encourage for the lurkers to identify themselves, since I never do that myself, I will say again that I do love your comments. All of them. And giggle in tune with Brad Paisley when I read them over and over again. So do leave them. Even if you don't normally...