You know that scene in The Wedding Singer where Adam Sandler is trying to sing “Holiday,” but he’s super depressed about his life and ends up singing “I live in my sister’s baaaaaaaasement!”? That’s sort of my life right now, except without the super-depression, and substituting “parent’s house” for “sister’s basement.” And I’m also not a wedding singer, nor was I just left at the altar. But I do listen to a lot of eighties music, and I’m unsure of the course of my life right now, and I’m hoping things work out for me in the form of Billy Idol (who you don’t talk to that way). See? It’s the same.
All of my belongings are now in one place for the first time since 2003, and I find I own a lot of crap. I can barely move around my bedroom what with all the books, ottomans, and bizarre un-throw-away-able junk that has collected there (high school quote notebooks, deflated balloons, a “no snowmobiles” sign…). I have four chairs in my room, but none of them are for sitting. Two of them are for laundry-stacking, one is in the process of being refinished/reupholstered and has no seat, and one belongs to the cat, who is still alive, albeit barely. The “refinishing” on chair three has been going on for about five years now, but that’s the way projects go in my house. We collect all the materials we need in record time, neglect the project totally for a minimum of two years, and when we finally finish the task we become inspired to begin another. Repeat process.
I guess that’s one of the hallmarks of home; things never change. The dining room table is always covered by a project (this week, making envelopes out of calendars); the television is always blaring (usually golf, but the Olympics and the love of my life* are all I’ll allow dad to watch this week); the kitchen is always stocked with my-parents-are-old food (generic Oreos, the worst cookies ever; high-fiber cereal; mysteriously-flavored hard candies for the times when dad quits smoking; tabasco sauce for the times when dad doesn’t quit smoking; and the same jar of pickled fish that has been in our fridge for at least seven years now); the laundry always smells like my mom. Home, and my parents, resist change. Only when something falls apart do they make any move to fix it, like the bathroom doorknob, which literally crumbled to pieces in my hand the other day.
And they wonder why I procrastinate.