I can’t explain my fascination with old houses. Some people are hoarders, I am obviously in tune with my inner homeless person. I see an old house and think, “the stories that must be in those walls” and become debilitating distracted. I must admit, I have been kicked out of old houses on numerous occasions…not a proud fact, but a fact none-the-less. I am overwhelmed at the thought of who lived there, what memories do the walls hold, what secrets did the windows keep, how many first kisses did the porch and its light witness, how many sunday dinners did it host? Even more so, what/who after filling it, left it alone to stand against the world? I then find myself asking, who came after and tried to destroy this -clearly- pretty bad ass of a foundation? I mean look at it, to still be standing in all its glory despite judgment or condition.

I then realize, this fascination rolls over into the fact that people – women- tend to judge the same. I often hear, I want honesty, genuine personalities not perfection. All too often we see just the opposite, when you  give the honesty or genuine personality you are now a bitch…see this rule only applies to them talking to other women, not other women talking to them.

This is not a soapbox rant, just a reminder that old houses are much like people we all have our windows, walls, lights etc…empathise with them, respect them and learn to not throw stones but see the beauty that once was. If you don’t then you are a genuine shitwinker.