Last night, I turned on the light on my front porch, on our way out to Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End. I don’t know why that moment, more than any other, was particularly poignant–the simple act of turning on a porch light–but I think that’s when it fully hit me: I have a home of my own, not. I’m responsible for little things like turning on and off porch lights. Not parents, not RAs, not anyone else … Me.
So… yeah. Having my own place is exciting and new. Mostly, it’s good. I’ve been ready for this, for a while.
The last few days, I’ve really been off the map, so to speak… as I get settled in. Things are still a mess, but the house is starting to seem a little like a house. I’ve cooked a few meals (with some frustration … I need more pots!!), watched a movie, played some games, drank some beer. The novelty hasn’t worn off yet, but it’s starting to feel like home. Things are a terrible mess.
This morning, Andrew and I went garage-sale-ing, searching for some essentials like a lawnmower, mixing bowls, broom & dustpan, etc. We didn’t actually find anything we were looking for, but at the last place we stopped Andrew found a love-seat that he decided we should have – not a bad deal, at $15. But then there was the question of how to get it home. Andrew solved that right quick: we’d put the cushions in the car, and he’d carry it home on his head. … Home, like 2 miles away.
After a few blocks of carrying it on his head, with me driving along side, I persuaded him to just put it on the car… and we drove back to the house. And vacuumed it. And asked Andrew to wash the cushions, when he gets a chance. And propped up one side with a calculus book … most useful the book’s ever been.
Anyhow. It’s good to have a house. And a home.
