While there is much to appreciate about my humble abode, my chief complaint concerns its diet.  My house takes the expression, "I'll eat my hat," to heart. More accurately, to stomach.

This became evident four years after I moved in; no doubt, it was building its appetite. I had been at a writing group in Palo Alto. When it was time to go, I put on my purple fleece hat, and walked with my friend to his car. We drove back to Berkeley. It was early May, too hot, I realized, for a hat. I took it off and held it in my lap. When he dropped me off, I took my hat into my house. The next day I couldn't find it anywhere.

Fast forward seven years. I had last seen my navy blue fleece hat, AKA Cozy Cozy, in the hallway. Cozy Cozy, to refresh your memory, is the one I accidentally dropped on Highway 1 one night in August '09. Thankfully, the Royal We found it again, but the past few years have not been easy. I've tried to do my best with it, taking care to put it in the bag, letting the hat out of the bag, and giving it much praise and encouragement. Then it disappeared.

There's only one possibility--my house ate it.

What will my house feast on next? Does it want a house salad? A meal on the house? 

Meanwhile, I will count my blessings.

Tis better to live in a hat-eating house than a house-eating hat.