Simply put: I love you. Have my babies. As a friend. In a platonic way.

During Anniversary, philosophy offered a 32 oz. amazing grace shampoo, bath & shower gel for $25. You’ll notice that the 16 oz. is regularly $22. So, um, hello, that Anniversary offer was quite a steal.

On the next-to-last day, I sent my mom a-wanderin’ to the philosophy counter at Perimeter’s Nordstrom to purchase my GARGANTUANLY inexpensive amazingly gracearrific love. The “consultant” or whatever they’re called said they’d sold out most everywhere, so she could pay then and they’d ship it to the house. From somewhere like Hawaii, where I guess they don’t like their grace to be amazing.

‘Cept it never showed.

After a week I called. I was put on hold a lot. Then, oh then, I met Lisa. She sadly informed me that they’d sold out nationwide, that nary an amazing grace was to be had. I said huh, that kind of would have been nice to know, you know, Lisa? Lisa said Yes, Ashley, it really would have been nice for you to know and it was Wrong, Very Wrong, for the consultant to neglect to follow up. She apologized profusely, said she’d have some Words with the consultant, and then …

Lisa said she would send me presents.

And now I will stalk love Lisa for the rest of my philosophically amazingly graced life, forever and ever amen.

Several months ago and in the middle of a whole lot going on, the dogs and I loaded up and moved back to downtown Salt Lake City. I mentioned a week or so ago that I’ve moved five times in four years, but I failed to count some more and extend the time to a more reasonable five year—bringing the grandish total to seven moves in five years. In case you were wondering, that is something that is very, very wrong.

The last time I lived on the Hill was back in the beginning of 2004. It was my first solo apartment, except in a house filled with awkward relationship—the landlord wasn’t married to his wife, but instead lived in an apartment in the upstairs of her home. But he was the landlord? Sounds like someone has some authority issues. Also, apparently had some issues with leaving dirty workgloves in my apartment atop a load of CLEAN UNDERWEAR on my couch without notice or follow-up of any kind—except, you know, until I tenderly placed the gloves at his doorstep with a note on which was written a hastily-scrawled, “YOURS?” I managed a raised-brow lowering of the eyes my coworkers call the “Ashley Look,” when he messily attempted to explain the circumstances which allowed him unannounced access to my apartment and, apparently, my drawers.

(They call it the “Ashley Look” and laugh, but are wondering if maybe someone else can go to get lunch next time because they’re downright tired of eating spit. I just tell them to stir up their soups real good, and that maybe someday, the service industry WILL RECOGNIZE WHO IS WRITING THEIR PAYCHECKS.)

(I get that from my Mom, FYI.)

My situation has changed a bit since that first apartment alone. For example, I no longer have unlimited credit and no longer expect several boxes from GAP.com to flow from UPS and find themselves upon my doorstep at any given point in the week. I do still, miraculously, have my car, even with the bumped-up door and pole-cracked bumper, but it hasn’t seen the light of day minus dog food on the floor in quite some time. I’ve changed jobs thrice, and find myself on top of my own contentedness more often than not. I don’t dread phone calls from my family, and seek out conversation from my mother several times a week. I still struggle, but can find my way out more often than not.

It’s a good place to be.

I’m far from coming full circle in four years, but it seems just about right to be back in the neighborhood at this stage in my life, leaving lots of baggage behind and bringing two pups along for the ride. Besides, Ethel just downright giggles every time I let her loose on the Capitol lawn.

I am not sure I’ll ever be quite ready to talk about what happened a week ago on Wednesday-thru-Friday. I will, however, share something I came to know, intimately. I don’t think you ever quite know how a loyal pet can affect your life until you are suddenly struck with the unequivocal realization. I looked frantically around the room Wednesday morning, sobbing, and trying to think of the least painful way to downright end it all, when my eye caught Ethel’s—and I knew she knew things were bad, by the way that wrinkle above her left eye was creased against her brow—and I shuddered and cried aloud, “But then who would take care of you?”

And she saved me. She flat-out talked me down from the ledge and I buried my head into her puppy mullet, knowing I’d never have the courage to do anything so final, but also finding myself acutely aware of how not alone I would always be with her burrowed in the covers at my side.

My mother has worked full-time since I was very young, and she did quite well for herself and for us. As such, from the time I was in 3rd grade and my brother was in kindergarten, Daniel and I spent afternoons and early evenings at home alone, one of us setting fire to the microwave by REFUSING TO REMOVE THE METAL WRAPPER FROM POPTARTS, but I don’t remember which one of us that was, except it was a 10-year-old, who was also a boy and also my brother and maybe he squealed just a little bit and jumped up and down instead of turning off the microwave. We spent the years before the Internet’s regrettable entrance into our home mostly watching television and fighting over who called which end of the couch and whether or not the person who called the good spot had also remembered to call the remote. Because if you ain’t got the remote, that spot means jack squat to you, suckah. Might as well give it to me. Or I’ll punch you in the face.

Don’t get me wrong, we loved each other a lot. We just showed that love by beating the ever-living snot out of each other while we watched first-run episodes of Saved by the Bell and Full House. It took until about five minutes ago for me to realize that my possession of the remote never really mattered because we watched the same thing every day anyway. Whatever.

My mother kept us fed and mostly bathed, and we lived far from squalor, but our home was never the picture of sparkling cleanliness. The laundry did pile up and there was a perpetually evolving collection of wrappers and crumbs on the end tables. I’d awaken at half-past way too late o’clock on Saturdays and find my mother, a spring of energy I don’t think I’ve ever possessed, even collectively, mopping the kitchen, dusting the entertainment center, painting bedrooms, installing hardwood floors, and/or just rocking the weekend in general. Back then, I found the early-afternoon vacuuming obnoxiously detrimental to my thirteenth hour of sleep, but I now realize it was the only time my mother had to keep our home on the safe side of that line between livability and filth.

I think it would be safe to say that while I did appreciate the squeaky-clean and scrumptious scents that filled the house on such Saturdays, I slept or whined through most of it. I didn’t learn early on (or at all, really) how to maintain an acceptable level of tidy habitability. The smell, though, yum.

As such, I have what might be considered a thriving addiction cleaning products, chemicals, implements, and scents. For all the crap, which is created and intended to be used to make my home and life less crappy, I sure do live with, around, and surrounded by a lot of crap. My Saturdays fall seriously short of my mother’s. I am less than faithful at regularly dusting or vacuuming. I suck at installing hardwood floors and I’m too short to paint, even with one of those roller things.

I moved into this apartment way back at the end of February, but it wasn’t the most conducive time to healthily rebuild and redesign. Ever desiring to outlive the past, I’ve recently resolved to focus on one room at a time. I’ve moved a lot in the past several years (five times in four years), and never really gotten the hang of home. Slowly, but surely, I hope to make this space my own.

As I spend far too much time on the Internet (See also, ¶1 §3, above), I’ve recently enjoyed virtually witnessing some incredibly creative and fabulous and beautiful, but definitely not-in-my-budget redecorations in various Internetty-type people’s homes. The photographs are interesting and inspiring. We’ll see how this goes.

The bathroom is first.