If I ever win a Tony, I sure do hope it’s a year when NPH is hosting. I’ve already planned my acceptance. First, I’ll lick my award – Paula Deen style, y’all. Then, I’ll forgo a formal acceptance speech and dedicate my window of time to presenting a clear, concise (possibly bulleted and with full illustrations) dissertation on why Neil and should be besties.
I should probably get started on writing that epic ukulele musical sooner rather than later, eh?
So I’m no longer in Virginia, yet I can’t really say I’m home. Mostly because I’m not entirely sure how to define home at this exact moment.
Is it where you keep all your shit? If so, my home is on a pallet in a warehouse somewhere in the wilds of Jersey. Here’s my home leaving on a truck. Weird.
It was harder to move out than I thought it would be. I mean, we’ve been at this for three years. Shouldn’t I have worked out all the sad emotional stuff the first two times we “bought” a new house and prepared to move out of Hoboken? I sure thought so. But when I looked out my office window at my tree, the CVS, and the giant orange PARK sign that tirelessly st00d between me and the sky for what (hopefully) was the last time, I felt a twinge in my gut.
And this time it wasn’t the parasite.
Is home where you sleep at night? Then for the next two days my home is Union City. Then, for the next week, it’ll be various places in Ohio. Then back to Union City. Then Manhattan for a night or two. Then maybe Virginia. Then…oh you get the point already.
“Home is where the heart is.” Allegedly. So Tony Bennett’s home is San Francisco? And which part of my heart am I supposed to be paying attention to? The chunk that swims in sausage gravy and honey suckle back in North Carolina? The wad that follows Rocco wherever he goes (even fucking Ohio)? The glob that desperately wants to rub my face on Mildred’s belly and scratch Lucy’s ears? The parts that belong to my brothers? My parents? My friends? To Justin Timberlake and Neil Patrick Harris?
Maybe home is where the free wifi is. So I’ll be at Panera, most likely.
Cross your fingers we actually manage to successfully close and sell our apartment today. Otherwise you’ll have to listen to me bitch about moving back into my apartment. Again.