I have no religion but I tend to have a sympathy for the philosophy that pride is not an ideal life force. I am going to confess, then, my little pride problem with my house, of which I was reminded this morning. I was unlatching my front gate to begin my morning walk to work and a middle-aged nice-looking couple was walking past on the sidewalk.

As I came out of the gate, they looked up past me to my front porch and my house, and then, while walking, looked back over their shoulders at the house again, and then did a triple-take. And I felt all smug and loving of my house. And I thought to myself: “Yeah, it’s that kind of house.”

Often, in conversation with people I don’t know well, they will ask me where I live and I will tell them the cross streets and say that my house is blue. Then as often as not they will light up and say: “Oh! I know that house!” Then I feel like perhaps I live in a landmark, which notches up my high-horsiness another setting. This is probably not awesome.

p.s. One day I will actually take a photo of my house that shows more than just one small detail of it.