Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Alone at Home
Today, I found an apartment. And it is mine. All mine. And, no, you can't live there with me because, in the words of the ever-wise Kevin McCallister, "I'M LIVING ALONE!"
There are two things I always wanted when I grew up. 1) An ice cream maker and 2) My own apartment. The ice cream maker was perhaps a bit easier to come by. It was only $14.95. The apartment was slightly more expensive but doesn't require ice, rock salt, and heavy cream.
I used to fantasize about finding my own place. Like a hideout, or a clubhouse. Our farm was filled with several abandoned sheds, and I just knew that one of them was secretly my home. I could hang curtains and haul in an old chair for reading in. And no one but me would know it was there. Unfortunately, all of the sheds on our farm were abandoned for a reason: they were falling down. Or filled with rotting grain. Or both. And so, despite my many attempts to find a secret hideout, I was stuck hiding out in my bedroom. Singing along to Roxette. Pretending I was a Goonie. Reading titilating romance novels. (Which, in retrospect, were more hilarious than titilating.) When I was in my bedroom, I believed that no one could hear my horrible singing. Or my Truffle Shuffling. Or my frantic page turning.
And that is what I crave with my new apartment: the ability to do whatever I want, whenever I want. To lay on the couch without having to make room for other people. To let my dishes sit in the sink overnight if I don't feel like washing them. To watch TV in my underwear: baseball in the summer, old movies on in the winter.
Of course, visitors will be welcome, as long as they don't drink too much Pepsi before bed. I mean it.