i had wanted to meet him , of course , since the first time i heard his smoky voice as he seemed to sing his way into my clitoris and my heart , but inviting him to a house with yellow walls -not from paint , or some martha stewart magazine photo , but from decades of mama 's chain smoking , and linoleum held together with asbestos and apple juice spills - ground in just how bad my life must look to someone from the outside .