I’m in Canada. That’s where I live, you know. Even if it still doesn’t quite feel like home.

When I go to Arizona, I am going to a place that has known, loved and embraced me since the day I was born. Where the proverbial everybody knows my name. In returning to ay-zee, I’m returning to a state of normalcy. A state of comfort. A state of mind. The 48th state. It has five Cs and cacti and my life history.

So when I head for Arizona, I head for home. Which means my trip back to Canada can only be going house. Going house-with-purple-walls-that-retain-a-funny-smell-from-the-last-guys-who-lived-here, if we’re being technical.

But how can I call it going house, when my husband, Poor Kyle, lives here and waits patiently for me to return? It’s not just house to him…it’s his home. And They say that home is where the heart is, but my poor little heart is divided so many times, it feels like I only have one tiny ventricle to dedicate to Canada. I mean…Paris, London, Brussels, New York, San Fran…every place I’ve visited, I’ve left a piece of my heart behind.

All of this thinking is bad for the brain, so let’s just move on.

The good news is: August is over and September has arrived in all its Autumn glory! And I do love September. I was born in September, and this month I’ll be turning 22, which looks like such a small little number all typed up. Even though when I was a kid, 22 might as well’ve been 88, because who can possibly fathom life in their twenties as a 10 year-old? When I was 10, I thought my 22 year-old self would look something like this:

Good thing I have another 10 years before my face morphs*. Heaven help me when I’m 30 {tongue-in-cheek, people…tongue in cheek}.

Also, good thing I’m still just almost-22.

So I like September mostly because it’s the month of my birth, but also for these fantastic reasons.

The bad news is, when I was growing up, September signified the oncoming months of sweater-weather, when I could finally stop wearing bras to school because who notices perkiness under oversized hoodies, anyway? But now that I’ve moved north of the 49th parallel, September signifies the oncoming months of THIS PLACE IS EFFING COLD.

Because as I type this, it is 36 degrees Faranheit outside, and we have our heater turned on. Our heater. Turned on. In September. {Actually, Poor Kyle wanted to fire it up a few days ago, but man-made heat in the month of August goes against everything I hold dear.}

Unreal.

*Photo courtesy of this place.

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