It's not easy moving back in with your folks when you're 34 years old.
Especially when you've taken great pains to avoid same said move.
But...it's a lot easier than losing your home. To a fire.
Well, let's be fair, here. There wasn't much to move after the fire. As in: there was n.o.t.h.i.n.g. to move because well, it all burned up. So, really, it was physically, an easy move. My cat, who is either an angel or badass, or maybe a badass angel survived the fire and moving him was pretty easy...stuffed in a borrowed box poked with a crap-load of holes, so his little lungs had some space.
My sweet Mom collected me at the scene and what a shit moment that was. The street was laced in water, blue and red lights reflecting off the water swimming on dry pavement. And the sky was lit with beautiful, tiny flecks of fire resembling tiny orange lightning bugs, scampering through the fingered branches of the Oaks surrounding the house.
Mom and I stood, with the neighbors, watching as my tiny, sweet little house lost itself to flames.
I'd just finished cleaning every nook and cranny of that house. I'd re-decorated, a few months prior, hoping to remove the memory of what was the ugliest and most dishonest break-up I'd ever experienced. Catholics take the Eucharist and pray through stuff like that and non-believers grab the bull by the horns and persevere through stuff like that. People like me? We burn the hell out of White Sage and cleanse our space of shitty memories. Leading up to December, this mass cleansing was also a way of opening the door to a man who, as it turns out, makes me rather happy about the ultimate parting of the other. And the hardwood floors shone with happiness while the spiderwebs cried at having been removed from the comforts of the ceiling corners and spaces. The new feminine ivory-white bedspread was the first I'd bought in well over a decade and I like to imagine it loved wrapping itself around me in complete and utter calm each night. The oven and kitchen thanked me for the mass cleaning I'd performed anticipating the cakes, pies and veggie lasagnas that would make themselves at home, right there in that sweet warm space.
And then, one night, my "get-on-your-hands-and-knees" house beckoned me out.
With a bang.
My sweet house, charmed with 20 plus pots of pansies, garden fairies and gnomes pushed me out.
It was time to leave and that house. And that house, who loved me as much as I loved it, gave me ample warning of the end of our time together.
It's now been over a month since I lost my house. And if I think about it too much, it makes me sob. Alone. I cry alone where no one will see because, really, it's not that I lost my stuff...it's that I lost my independence. I lost the house which became an extension of my very self, of my being. I lost the hundreds of books with whom I shared stories and moreover whose stories I'd hoped to some day emulate...not copy...but whose bravery in pairing privacy with wide open world inspired my own hope to someday do the same. I lost the quiet and the re-assurance that while days aren't always good days, at least my perfect, sweet house was there. It was the ladies' sanctuary. It was the escape for moms who needed a quiet wine break, if only for 2 hours. It was the Downton Abbey re-run party house where my girl Natasha and I screamed at the tv screen and clutched one another's hands when Matthew was killed in a car wreck. It was the gathering place for "wanna be wine parties" and movie marathons. My sweet house was a labor of love. And I feel as though I have lost a love, truly.
I cry, too, because I feel sorry for my stupid self. All those years of saving, banking and proving to my own damn self that I am independent all went up in flames.
And. I am wearing other peoples' clothes.
And that, my friends, is not only humbling, it is heart-building (opposite of heart-breaking).
Because suddenly, you know that these clothes, and the toiletries, and the cat supplies, and the financial donations, and the plates, cups, wine glasses, dishware, robes and a bazillion other things tell you something spectacular about yourself.
No matter what anyone has ever said or done to me; no matter how much it's hurt that someone's taken my heart, broken it and left me to sweep it up off the floor; no matter how many lies or betrayals or letdowns I have ever experienced....one thing sings louder...L.O.U.D.E.R. than all of that...
...and that is...that somewhere along the road, Karma decided she owed me one....for something. I cannot express, with 26 letters, what it feels like to be at the hand of an outpouring of generosity- not like this one. It is overwhelming and warm and the kindness feels like a warm sunned-up yellow.
To feel this well-cared for feels like eating an extra large calorie-free, animal-friendly version of McDonald's french fries...but to accept the help despite an ego the size of Texas feels....kind of like bliss, even during the heartache. To break down, and to just accept the help feels empowering. I know, now, that one person can feel both positive and negative extremes, simultaneously and that they can resolve to maintain some form of healthy balance between the two.
My friend and co-worker asked me about the now house-hunt. And, well, it's me...so I was honest. I told it sucks. It's not easy. And my sweet boyfriend has now sort of taken this one by the reigns....like he does everything else...and has given me some reprise, here.
It has not been easy to find a house.
And so...I live with my folks.
Hello. My name is Brett and I live with my parents. For 81 days.
Nice to meet you too.
And while my parents accept me as the badass child who never gives in and is as stubborn as a dead-weight freaking Ox, they have done absolutely nothing...but support me. They have risen like heroes. Let me drink my cocktails and read Harry Potter in peace and never judge me...for either.
Moreover, they silently support my needing of them right now.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am unquestionably obsessed with my books. Some favorites have been replaced by dear friends and the collection is building. It was important to my landlord, who owned my sweet little house, that I walk through the standing remains of the structure in order to pick and choose some charred items that may have survived the house. And in truest of form, I put on my brave face and I walked through what I could, never emitting the sadness that overwhelmed me. I pulled some things from the clutches of blackness...two of which included some water-logged books.
Two books.
Who cares?
My Dad cared.
I never told my parents about the items I'd pulled from my house and stored in their garage.
Instead, my Dad took the water-logged books, all by himself, and has spent the last week, painstakingly drying them. He's placed them in the sun, separated pages with bark. These were not books that I had coveted like, "Siddhartha" or "A Good Year."
But they are now.
They are coveted because my Mom and Dad know me so well that they go to these lengths in order to preserve some silly books...which they know are the product of my grandest dreams, ever. They tell stories. And their stores are saved...and those now-coveted stories look like this:
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Especially when you've taken great pains to avoid same said move.
But...it's a lot easier than losing your home. To a fire.
Well, let's be fair, here. There wasn't much to move after the fire. As in: there was n.o.t.h.i.n.g. to move because well, it all burned up. So, really, it was physically, an easy move. My cat, who is either an angel or badass, or maybe a badass angel survived the fire and moving him was pretty easy...stuffed in a borrowed box poked with a crap-load of holes, so his little lungs had some space.
My sweet Mom collected me at the scene and what a shit moment that was. The street was laced in water, blue and red lights reflecting off the water swimming on dry pavement. And the sky was lit with beautiful, tiny flecks of fire resembling tiny orange lightning bugs, scampering through the fingered branches of the Oaks surrounding the house.
Mom and I stood, with the neighbors, watching as my tiny, sweet little house lost itself to flames.
I'd just finished cleaning every nook and cranny of that house. I'd re-decorated, a few months prior, hoping to remove the memory of what was the ugliest and most dishonest break-up I'd ever experienced. Catholics take the Eucharist and pray through stuff like that and non-believers grab the bull by the horns and persevere through stuff like that. People like me? We burn the hell out of White Sage and cleanse our space of shitty memories. Leading up to December, this mass cleansing was also a way of opening the door to a man who, as it turns out, makes me rather happy about the ultimate parting of the other. And the hardwood floors shone with happiness while the spiderwebs cried at having been removed from the comforts of the ceiling corners and spaces. The new feminine ivory-white bedspread was the first I'd bought in well over a decade and I like to imagine it loved wrapping itself around me in complete and utter calm each night. The oven and kitchen thanked me for the mass cleaning I'd performed anticipating the cakes, pies and veggie lasagnas that would make themselves at home, right there in that sweet warm space.
And then, one night, my "get-on-your-hands-and-knees" house beckoned me out.
With a bang.
My sweet house, charmed with 20 plus pots of pansies, garden fairies and gnomes pushed me out.
It was time to leave and that house. And that house, who loved me as much as I loved it, gave me ample warning of the end of our time together.
It's now been over a month since I lost my house. And if I think about it too much, it makes me sob. Alone. I cry alone where no one will see because, really, it's not that I lost my stuff...it's that I lost my independence. I lost the house which became an extension of my very self, of my being. I lost the hundreds of books with whom I shared stories and moreover whose stories I'd hoped to some day emulate...not copy...but whose bravery in pairing privacy with wide open world inspired my own hope to someday do the same. I lost the quiet and the re-assurance that while days aren't always good days, at least my perfect, sweet house was there. It was the ladies' sanctuary. It was the escape for moms who needed a quiet wine break, if only for 2 hours. It was the Downton Abbey re-run party house where my girl Natasha and I screamed at the tv screen and clutched one another's hands when Matthew was killed in a car wreck. It was the gathering place for "wanna be wine parties" and movie marathons. My sweet house was a labor of love. And I feel as though I have lost a love, truly.
I cry, too, because I feel sorry for my stupid self. All those years of saving, banking and proving to my own damn self that I am independent all went up in flames.
And. I am wearing other peoples' clothes.
And that, my friends, is not only humbling, it is heart-building (opposite of heart-breaking).
Because suddenly, you know that these clothes, and the toiletries, and the cat supplies, and the financial donations, and the plates, cups, wine glasses, dishware, robes and a bazillion other things tell you something spectacular about yourself.
No matter what anyone has ever said or done to me; no matter how much it's hurt that someone's taken my heart, broken it and left me to sweep it up off the floor; no matter how many lies or betrayals or letdowns I have ever experienced....one thing sings louder...L.O.U.D.E.R. than all of that...
...and that is...that somewhere along the road, Karma decided she owed me one....for something. I cannot express, with 26 letters, what it feels like to be at the hand of an outpouring of generosity- not like this one. It is overwhelming and warm and the kindness feels like a warm sunned-up yellow.
To feel this well-cared for feels like eating an extra large calorie-free, animal-friendly version of McDonald's french fries...but to accept the help despite an ego the size of Texas feels....kind of like bliss, even during the heartache. To break down, and to just accept the help feels empowering. I know, now, that one person can feel both positive and negative extremes, simultaneously and that they can resolve to maintain some form of healthy balance between the two.
My friend and co-worker asked me about the now house-hunt. And, well, it's me...so I was honest. I told it sucks. It's not easy. And my sweet boyfriend has now sort of taken this one by the reigns....like he does everything else...and has given me some reprise, here.
It has not been easy to find a house.
And so...I live with my folks.
Hello. My name is Brett and I live with my parents. For 81 days.
Nice to meet you too.
And while my parents accept me as the badass child who never gives in and is as stubborn as a dead-weight freaking Ox, they have done absolutely nothing...but support me. They have risen like heroes. Let me drink my cocktails and read Harry Potter in peace and never judge me...for either.
Moreover, they silently support my needing of them right now.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am unquestionably obsessed with my books. Some favorites have been replaced by dear friends and the collection is building. It was important to my landlord, who owned my sweet little house, that I walk through the standing remains of the structure in order to pick and choose some charred items that may have survived the house. And in truest of form, I put on my brave face and I walked through what I could, never emitting the sadness that overwhelmed me. I pulled some things from the clutches of blackness...two of which included some water-logged books.
Two books.
Who cares?
My Dad cared.
I never told my parents about the items I'd pulled from my house and stored in their garage.
Instead, my Dad took the water-logged books, all by himself, and has spent the last week, painstakingly drying them. He's placed them in the sun, separated pages with bark. These were not books that I had coveted like, "Siddhartha" or "A Good Year."
But they are now.
They are coveted because my Mom and Dad know me so well that they go to these lengths in order to preserve some silly books...which they know are the product of my grandest dreams, ever. They tell stories. And their stores are saved...and those now-coveted stories look like this:
Ironically, they look like flowers to me. How about we just go ahead and call then fire flowers.
And, in the end, it's just like my friend Jim says, "You always gotta look for the peanut in the turd." Well, as long as you equate peanuts with "good" and turds with "not-so-good."
He's right though.
Through the bad, you always have to seek the good, no matter how much it hurts your Ego to whittle itself down. No matter how tragic the circumstances, you have to seek the good. And, when you're really, really, really quiet, it makes itself known.
Clear as the bright blue sky and as boldly as a blazing fire. The good shows itself.
So much for the White Sage ceremony. My sweet house swept up the bad stuff, made room for the good stuff and forced me to accept a path that is rather unknown to me.
And I accept that. I hold my sweet man's hand tightly, drink Gin and Tonics with my parents, appreciate that my cat and Travis' dog get along and have resigned to letting things happen as they will, soggy books and all- and that's because I've found a few peanuts in a pretty big lump of turds.
And no matter what, I am still always a little bit ridiculous.
