It's an exciting day for me: I'm moving into an apartment on Monday. So this Friday I will be securing boxes and tape and gettin' to it. Until my date tonight. Then, back at this packing thing on Saturday.
I've been living with my folks for 2+ years, and while it has helped all of us, it's time for me to move on. Just down the street. I envision dancing around my kitchen naked. Playing The Cliks at top volume. NOT listening to Fox Noise even from the other room. Not having dad hover over my cooking in the kitchen. When the crazy right wing talk starts I can go to my own home.
And I can throw my date down on the couch and ..... without my parents upstairs. I can burn incense and chant all I want. Yeah, well, there are neighbors upstairs, and to the right and left, so I can't go completely balls out here.
This all came about very quickly -- found it, got approved and signed a year lease, secured the movers, all in one day. It is by far the nicest apartment I've seen in my months of looking. In fact, I was so discouraged about what I was finding out there that I decided, two months ago, to stay where I was. Then, a casual walk around the neighborhood and there it was: a crazy 1960's apartment building that doesn't look too thrilling on the outside, but inside the apartment, it felt like home. My home.
That's the report from the front lines of a middle-aged lesbian who has been living with her parents waaayyyy too long. Wish me luck.