Home is . . . where you sleep

Who says that home is where the heart is? I say that home is where the pillow, comforter, and (insert you favorite superhero in here) sheets, are waiting to greet you.

I have an apartment I call home. My bed there features flannel sheets, two comforters, and my new pillow. Occasionally it holds multiple throw pillows, when I actually make it, and several loads of laundry at a time, when I'm being counter productive. (The bed also features a cat, which lives under it, and on occasion condescends to meander at night, but only if I look the other way. That however is another story.) I call that home.

(note: cat is not really evil, just a bad pic.)

However, I often get home from work, grab my late night snack, and find myself to tired to make the climb up two flights of stair to my apartment. I then crash on my parents couch. (They have a guest bedroom, but there's another cat down stairs, and this one called dibs times infinity on the guest bed, so I get the couch.) My bed there features no sheets, but a blanket thrown underneath to insulate, a small throw pillow, which often smell of small dog, cat, or little kid, and the largest short blanket I can find. (What demented genius made all blankets just barely to short to cover your feet, no matter how you scrunch?) This too, I call home.

(See I'm not the only one who thinks its comfy)

But tonight, or rather earlier this morning, as I got off of work and my beautiful sister, and my gorgeous friend came to pick me up, nothing felt more like home, than walking onto the third floor of the girls dorm, which smelled of popcorn and feet, and pulling in my large swishy red inflatable mattress. And now I will cover it with a to short blanket, lay down on a tiny fuzzy throw pillow, pull up a spare quilt, and drift off to sleep (eventually) to the sound of the mattress rubbing against various pieces of furniture. And I feel quite at home. . . although it seems there should be a cat around here somewhere.