I'm fairly certain I was going to have one, before Ashlyn distracted me with thoughts of living in a hovel.

I'd be good at a hovel.

I'm good at making do. I could use twine and a twig to sew curtains out of old rags. Weave a weedy doormat. Make shelves out of flattened tin cans. In the winter, when it wasn't nice to go out, I'd spend my time smoothing lumps and filling holes in the dirt floor, making it perfectly smooth for when company came over.

I'd probably dumpster-dive to find a bit of carpet I'd put out only on special occasions.

I'd steal one of those cool tiny grocery carts from Whole Foods. I'd feel badly about it, but I'd do it. Maybe I'd spend some of my spare time rounding up other carts in the parking lot and taking them back to the store, to soothe my conscience.

Coffee would be a problem. I don't suppose hovel-dwellers get many lattes. I could put my French Press in my little cart and then take the used coffee grounds that Starbucks puts out for "mulch" and make some second-generation coffee.

I'm assuming it would be fairly nasty, but if they get used to seeing you around, the Starbucks people are very generous. I'll bet they'd sneak me the odd half-cup of unused grounds.

Note to my friends: Always remember and never forget that whatever track my brain gets started on first thing in the morning is where it stays all day. (Today's Hovel Theme is dedicated to Ashlyn and the magic of IM. Thankyouverymuch.)

She did remind me that I've been paying into the Social Security system for the past 30 years. That's less-consoling that it might be, considering that the dipshits in Washington are doing their best to bankrupt the program, but it's something. I guess.

Now I have a meeting.