For a gypsy like myself, "home" can be a very confusing concept.

Where am I from? Proudly, Santa Rosa, California. But I haven't lived there for over twelve years.

Where do I live?  Right now, in a hotel in Toronto.

Where are my belongings? Well, I have a lot of Ikea furniture in a storage space in Philadelphia, some random skating things in a trunk in the Netherlands, and as of last Tuesday, some summer things and a bike in a storage space in Sun Valley, Idaho.

I am not saying I am homeless.  Definitely not.  If this hotel I am sitting in were to go out of business tomorrow, I would have lots of places to go.

But if I were a dog and you commanded me to "GO HOME!"  I would kindly respond, "Most certainly, but where is that?"  (And most likely you wouldn't answer because you would be so excited that a dog could talk...and you definitely would have me repeat myself so that you could tape it for America's Funniest Home Videos, wouldn't you?)

Supposedly "home is where the heart is," right?  Well, since technically my heart is in my body, I guess my body is my home.  Which just sounds funny.  An ex boyfriend once accused me of thinking that my body was my temple, and from that moment on I knew it was a bad thing.  So, my body as my home is out of the question.

The address I use as my permanent address is my parent's address, which I guess doesn't exactly mean that that is my home.  It more means that I figure the chances of my parents having a house are much better than the chances of me having a house.  So far, I have been right.

So, if my home is neither here nor there, nor is it my body (and my body isn't a temple for the record! that's for dumb girls!) maybe my home is right here.  Wherever I am.

That works, right?!