Skip to main content

To make a home for kitty cats.

So Parker and I are all kindsa bent on moving out. You know, once everything comes together. We have no idea where we're gonna move, when we're gonna move, or any of that. We just know we will move and it will be awesome. With my full time job at Macy's and Parker's possible/probable assistant manager position, we're a helluva lot closer to something now than we were a year ago. And that is pretty rad.


I don't know if you know this, but I'll be 25 at the end of this month. To some almost 25-year-olds in the throes of a quarter-life-crisis, living anywhere that isn't his parents' basement seems vastly better than living in his parents' basement. There are considerations to be made, however....

For example, soon enough, Parker and I will likely be working at different malls. So something in between with plenty of ways to get around to things would be more than modestly convenient. I'd say possibly even downright necessary. Either way, that makes for a goodly wide space with lots of possibilities. And that's about as specific as our location can get at this point.

Naturally, we're a little sick of sharing a room (a bedsheet does not a soundproof wall make....). So we'd like at least a one or two bedroom place. Given our incomes, that isn't super easy but hardly impossible. I think ultimately size is less important than distinct spaces--walls, as it were.

We would also very much like to take Marcel with us. But he's an outdoor kitty--we can't take away his endless joy of lying about in dirt soaking up sunshine. That'd be cruel devilry, to be sure. So we'd kinda prefer anywhere vaguely suburban; somewhere he can roam around without too many cars to block him in/kill him. If that's not possible or we end up in an apartment, we're not opposed to getting ourselves a kitten and keeping him/her an indoor kitty, but we should surely miss Marcel.


We're impatient little imps, to be sure. There's really no objective, concrete reason for us to move out at this time; we just want to. Really, really want to. We don't have to, we could stay here at my parents' and save a lot of money. But that's not the point, I think...

Maybe it's cuz we kinda can. Maybe it's cuz I'm embarrassed of still living at home after a quarter of a century. Maybe it's because I wanna feel grownup--to behave like someone responsible, with responsibilities. Maybe it's because my impatience and excitement quite easily justify themselves--once I get excited about something, I'm motherfucking excited.

But maybe I need to slow down--at the least look at things one last time before plunging out into the blinding, sunlit abyss beyond my parents' front door.

Frankly, I don't even know if Parker wants to move. I mean, I know he does; we've talked about it plenty already. But I don't know if he wants to right now as much as I do; if he shares my overeager sense of urgency. The moment I did the math to estimate a minimum of what I could expect to make each month, it set something off in me. It's at least double, nearly triple, what I made a year ago. Fuck, man, that's temptation in numbers. But Parker seems a little less gung-ho. It's understandable--his job status is less assured at this point--he's probably going to be an assistant manager up at Lake Forest, but we still don't know that he will be.

Right now, we'll probably need to find us some roommates. At least one other, maybe two or three. That feels a little odd for me. I'm hardly sure how to live with other people nevermind track some down to share a place and split rent. If I slow down and look at the numbers, though, it's obvious. I may be making a lot more, but I'd like to still have some of it left after I pay rent each month. It may be more complicated but it's necessary. And, really, it probably won't be so awful, either.


Besides the parts of me that wants to feel, to look, grownup and the parts of me that are simply impatient and excitable of their own merit, part of me seems to yearn to make a home. To have a place that isn't actually my parents', that isn't so cluttered with so much baggage and disorder.

My parents are about to go to Hawaii for a couple of weeks. The last time my parents went out of town and left us in charge like this, both Parker and I felt distinctly responsible, even effective. We took care of things and felt accountable when we didn't. The moment my parents came back, those feelings were somehow snuffed; we returned to normal, to our ordinary ways, missing somewhat how it felt to pretend to be grownup, to pretend to be homemakers.

So this is a chance to try it out--a mock up of living on our own. See how it works out. Afterall, the last time was a pretty big turning point for us.

Until then, moving out was a distant, vague point of occasional discussion. "When we have our own place, let's name our kitty ___!" for example. Suddenly, it became real; we had an idea what it could feel like living on our own. Of course there's issues of rent and cleaning and bills and upkeep; but what we glimpsed then was some of those rewarding things that justify those responsibilities.

We burgeoning adults are willing, it seems to me, to take on such expansive responsibilities not so much, or not entirely, to escape the embarrassment of living at home and not exactly to feel grown up in itself, but for the feelings of ownership, of completeness, of purpose; as though to say, to be able to say, at last--

"This is my home; this is my life. Welcome."

Comments

Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Gardenzia carnivorus.

I recently got back into horticulture after a bad moment of burnout, and wouldn't ya know it, I'm back at it with carnivorous plants! Despite tweeting about it endlessly, I haven't actually explained how or why this started.

Back in middle school, I helped my science teacher set up a carnivorous plant display. Nothing elaborate, mind you; a terrarium with a bunch of sphagnum moss and some pitcher plants, a sundew or two, maybe a Venus flytrap? Didn't leave much of an impression, except maybe that they died and that sucked. shrug.
A couple years later, I was in a bog near my grandmother's lake house, when things changed forever. I was in the back end of the canoe, and as my dad pulled the front end out of the water, I glanced to my right and spied, on a stump with some moss, sundews (Drosera rotundifolia, to be precise).
Of course I recognized therm instantly—they're hard to mistake, with those the sparkling tentacles and all. I gathered 3 or so of them (I know