BY GOD, IT'S TRUE . . .

I own a home.

Well, as C likes to remind me, the BANK owns a home and my name is on the papers, but as long as I can scrounge up the monthly mortgage and common-charge payments, the Bank and the condominium association let me live there.

But it's MINE until they take it away from me. It and everything in it: the lights, the ceiling fan (which isn't as atrocious as some of the ones they remove routinely on "Trading Spaces"), the fridge, the dishwasher, the range, the built-in shelving, the closets, the mailbox, the carpeting and the window treatments, the lovely patio furniture that the prior owners kindly bequeathed to me. And the three gallons of paint and painting supplies currently sitting in the living room, the bottle of water in the fridge and the roll of cheap 1-ply toilet paper I installed this afternoon.

Dang.