I have a crush.

We haven't been to Gilbertsville in nearly two weeks, and it's starting to be hard.

I did not expect it to be hard.

I expected that, after spending three weekends and Veteran's Day working away on the new house, Thanksgiving weekend would be a happy break. That I might-- get this-- relish time spent away, a chance to relax.

It's exactly the opposite. I MISS IT. I'M DREAMING ABOUT IT. I want to be there, achy and wearied, with paint under my fingernails. I think Patrick feels this way, too, though he's more covert.

I was turning all this over in my head as I walked back to work, in the rain, from dropping my car off for an oil change. And then it hit me. I have a crush ON OUR HOUSE.

This quickened pulse, these heady yearnings: gee, this feels familiar. This feels like sophomore year of college, when I had a crush on a Peruvian. (This was before I came to my senses and married me a good, steady upstate New York boy.)

This house and I, see, we're already married, but still in the honeymoon phase. We're falling in love, Patrick and I and the house, and instead of bringing it flowers or chocolates or taking it out to a fancy dinner, we want to bring it paint buckets. We want to spend happy hours stroking the curves of its baseboards and window frames with our brushes.

The same way I'd look forward, hungrily, to my next class with the Peruvian, I'm thinking of Friday. Friday, Friday. The car will pull into the driveway, the trunk will slam, Diesel will be installed in the backseat, and we will be off. On the road to Gilbertsville. Off to spend the weekend in love.