I didn’t used to have a house.
I was a wandering sort of rogue. I lived in half a dozen cities in less than four years, and even when I was theoretically settled (you know, going to college and all) I would drop everything for a road trip every two months or so. And by ‘every two months’ we mean ‘biweekly’. I used to cruise around in the car just to PRETEND I was going somewhere, even when I had a test the next day and there was no way in hell I could even drive from Chicago to Cleveland (a short jaunt, really).
I moved to Boulder, Colorado temporarily to help out a friend of mine who was having her second baby. I used to visit her in Boulder a lot when I was in Chicago (that was about a normal one-day sixteen-hour hop for me), and I loved Boulder, and why I didn’t move there before is beyond everyone, including me. I decided to stay after she and her husband and their passel of children moved back to California. It may have had something to do with the incredible plethora of attractive snowboarder/philosophers. I mean, just possibly. Also the breweries. There are a lot of them, and their joint creed is deliciousness.
So I found a house.
Actually, I found a duplex, but since my neighbor’s entrance is way over on the other side and he actually has a different street address than I do (as in, mine is Grove Street, his is 16th Street), I just pretend he doesn’t exist. I have the front of the house anyway, which makes it better.
I like my house. It is big and roomy and has lots of windows and plants growing about it, and it is walking distance from everything. It is painted a pretty shade of green and has an attic with no apparent entrance (I am not making this up) and a friendly ghost (I might be making that up a little but I had VERY strange dreams the first night I was there, and they involved levitation, so what’s your conclusion? That’s what I thought).
Settling down is a new sensation for me. Usually I’m thrilled to be elsewhere for awhile. I like novelty. I like visiting. I like intruding upon friends and strangers and seeing what’s up with them. I never expected to want to settle down with a house but here I am, happily monogamous to a single place, and now I can’t get back there, and it saddens me.
I am not a social creature.
There are many, many ways in which I am not your typical female, and this is one of them. Women are supposed to get off on communities and interactions and discussions and compassionate goings-on. Not me. I like all of those things in moderation, but if I don’t have at least half the day entirely to myself and my own devices, I start looking around for things to break. Crockery. Hearts. Small buildings. You know.
I was one of those teenagers that didn’t want to interact with the family and I never got over it. It was actually a problem before then. As a kid, my mother was certain something was wrong with me because I never wanted to play with the other kids. I was a nose-in-a-book girl, and it took a long time before everyone realized I just liked it that way. As an adult, my closest two girlfriends are very accommodating to this quirk. I have actually had both of them take one look at my crazed stare and insist that I go on a walk. For four hours. Or so. Until you stop feeling homicidal.
They’re great. My Tara actually did this to me WHILE WE WERE PLANNING HER WEDDING. That is how intense that crazed gotta-be-alone look is. Even soon-to-be-brides know what’s up. We’ve all decided I’m not allowed to have children. It would be a survival of the fittest game – who can run away from Mommy the farthest so that she doesn’t kill them in a maddened blood-wrath. They could make a reality show out of it.
I’m not living alone right now. What’s worse, I’m living with my family.
While I was sitting here, right now, writing this post? My brother came in and tried to make conversation (I’m typing in his room since Daddy kicked me out of the office so he could watch TV shows on Hulu), and then my dad came around behind him and tried to offer me the office back, and I frankly want to go out and kill everyone in the world right now, just to keep them from talking to me while I’m writing. When the keys are making that happy sound? The voices of angelic children singing hosannas would be in disharmony with that happy sound. The voices of my beloved family are causing me to involuntarily sprout iron fingernails with which to wrench their tongues from their sockets.
I love them. Really I do. But I want my goddamn quiet house back. It never tries to talk to me. Even the GHOST shuts up when I’m writing. It’s a very considerate ghost. I think it used to be a writer, too.
Moral of the Story
1. It’s important to have a place where you can accomplish things.
2. Find that place.
3. Then never leave it.
This is good advice, from me to you. You don’t want to see the blood-wrath. It ain’t pretty.
Not Related At All
Akismet recently caught a spam mail entitled, “How to Weigh Weed.” Now, I did NOT click on it, because I know better than to encourage the beast, but I was mightily curious, let me tell you. Do you weigh weed differently than you weigh, say, jelly beans? The things you MISS when you skip the secondary intoxicants, I’m telling you. I don’t even know street names anymore for any of this stuff. I used to. I used to have CRED, people. But I was faking it.
Subscribe. I’m homesick.