I Think... (Because You Earned It)

- that I will not get a decent job until I've passed the bar.

- that my weird relationship with the boy is turning into friendship, and it's my fault.

- that music sometimes can fix my heart.

- that the judges on Top Model should actually judge, and not play the PC card.

- that I'm going to have to listen to endless messages from my father to my Momma on my machine.

- that I might be able to talk Momma into paying for a housekeeper here.

- that sleeping on the couch is hot, uncomfortable, and necessary.

- that I can't fix the fact that I'm jealous. And if that's the deal-breaker, well, it is what it is.

The New Normal

So, she's staying through at least the health crisis and recovery. We've been able to have some honest conversations about what this means, and how we can better communicate and, most importantly, how we can get out of each other's hair. Back in the day, when I lived with Momma, we lived in her house, which is about 5000 square feet. I pretty much had an apartment to myself in the basement. This made it much easier to enjoy each other's company, and to get away when we needed to.

Now, we're in my 1500 square foot apartment, and while that sounds PLENTY big, there's really not a lot of living space. So for almost a week, we've been under each other's foot, and it's been tricky.

Tomorrow we're going to buy furniture for my guest room, so I can have my room back, and she can have her own space.

Different (yet related) topic:

My cat has apparently been using said guest bedroom for his personal place to be ill. I just spent about an hour cleaning up about 15 different places where he's been sick. There's a product called Spot Shot which works like a gem for such messes. Any of you with pets, children, or an inability to hold a drink upright should really buy this stuff. You only need a paper towel to clean up the mess.

Permission

So after telling the boy, end over end, that I write about him, I'm now allowed to refer to him by name. I still don't want to, because I like this version better, plus, I am endlessly jealous, and don't want anyone else to hunt him down.

In the boy part, he sent me this link tonight: Dionaea House. I've read through it, but not closely. My thoughts are mostly Blair Witch, and also, WHAT?

And that's one of the many reasons that I adore him. He gives me intrigue, and interest, and makes me laugh harder than anyone else.

I also had to confess tonight to Momma that I write about her. She gave me the death glare (damn, she's good at that) and told me that once it's posted, it can never be taken down. Then she got over it, and realized that her daughter just does what she does.

Also, thank you, Wade, for allowing me to talk about you.

Yea? Or bad? How many repercussions have you had for writing?

I Blame Dooce, Or My Addiction To Reading Her Site

Remember how much time I spent worrying about too honest on this little experiment of mine? Apparently I shot that right down.

I was just reading the most current page of el Blogo, and I saw that I've been writing about things that are much more personal about my life. And as I entitled, I blame Dooce.

When I find a blog I like, I read it from beginning to end. The downside of my most recent reading obsession is that she's been blogging for about 7 years. This gives me a whole lot to catch up on. One of my favorite things about her site is just how open she is about her life, her thoughts, her silliness. So, after reading her site for a couple of weeks now, I guess it's rubbed off.

Normally, I mention the boy and the intricacies that are my life in cryptic terms (Hi, G!). Now, I find that I just need to ramble to y'all and that's what I do.

Golly, I look forward to the repercussions.

So, I'm Probably Evil And Self-Absorbed...

It's been 24 hours with Momma staying here. We've had a nice time; last night we stayed up late, talking and watching Hillary on the DNC. The whole point (for Momma) was watching for the mayoral results here. Mine was, well, Hillary. The most interesting part was that she got so distracted by Hillary's speech that she failed to notice that there will be a mayoral runoff here. Go, Hillary!

Today I had to go to the parents' house to pick up a few things that Momma had forgotten. My dad mentioned that he had picked up Momma's dry cleaning, and while I thought of that as I did a version of Supermarket Sweep through the house while my friend kept my dad occupied outside the house, I didn't pick it up. The reason I didn't is because Momma told me she planned to stay until the weekend, and then see what happens.

So I get home and I tell Momma about the dry cleaning. She says that she wishes that I had grabbed her dry cleaning, because she's got nothing to wear to work next week.

NEXT WEEK!!! She's planning on staying through next week? Umm. Uh-oh. OK. WHAT?

I love that she's feeling strong enough to leave her husband (ick) of almost 47 years. It's not been terrible all the time, but it's been bad for a long time. I've wanted her to leave (see below). I'm proud of her feeling like she has control of her own destiny.

Herein lies the problem. HER destiny, not mine. So now I've got my mother as an apparently perma-roommate? Her little comments about how she thinks I have no life hurt, but, at the same time, are not my issue; I can tell they're about her need to control, since she's had none for years.

But I already miss my privacy, my time on the phone with friends, my TV choices, and my bed. I wonder what will happen. I'm certain that if this goes on for (oh, God) a few weeks, it won't end well. I don't want to be the reason she feels like she has to go back to my dad.

Is this the split between parent and child that happens to most everyone else when they're like, in their 20s?

P.S. - I can already see the dichotomy regarding my mother living in my house.

Just over 24 hours, and I'm already praying for some solution? Hence, the title of this post.

Remember That Tuesday A While Back? This One's Better

Tonight I was chattering with Wade, and my Momma beeped in. I answered, and she said, "Mr. Wonderful just told me to leave. Can you come get me?"

Of course I can. I went to get my Momma, and so now she's staying with me for a few days to consider her options. This is an interesting development. In the spirit of honesty, I've wanted her to divorce my dad since I figured out what a true bastard he is - somewhere around 14. (Yes, I'm slow sometimes.) I'm happy for her choice, if only to take the time to decide what she needs.

Next, I emailed the boy to ask him to call me. I had to call him on the way to Momma's to ask him not to call me until I've got this sorted, and even better, to let me call him. Just now, I checked my email, and he wrote me about the problems in his world. They're worse than mine. I am not going to talk about them because they're not my problems to discuss, plus, my thoughts on them could be used as evidence later.

Regardless, let's just go back to that fact that I really, really, violently hate Tuesdays.

Conversations About Food

The boy is epicurious. Well, both an epicurean and a gourmet. I, however, have the tastebuds of an Applebee's. I do enjoy learning about different foods, and different cooking techniques, from him. Still, there are times when he seems a little over the top and proud of what he makes.

(The part about salmon "parts" in his Eggs Benedict kinda did me in.)

So, we've finally come to a resolution. He can talk in his terms, and when it's too much, I can say, "Casserole". I was raised endlessly Mid-Western, and as much as I love my Momma, I've probably chipped more than one tooth on her food. He then pointed out, "That'll never get old."

No, baby, no it won't. Remember to never tell me what I'm eating until it's ingested.