So, here’s a nugget of Real Life Info for you. Not only does my mother live with me (or me with her, depending on who you ask), but I rent my upstairs apartment to a nun.
Let’s just let that sink in for a minute.
I live with my mother and Maria Von Trapp.
Then there’s the dogs. I have one, Mom has two, Sister Maria Von Upstairs has one. All of them small and puffy, except Sister’s who is a twenty pound chihuahua rescue who was raised on nachos and lard, from all appearances.
Then there’s my crafty side, and I don’t mean sly. I bake, I knit, I sew. I’m polite, dutiful, tidy, I go to church, help old ladies across the street…
So, you’d be excused for thinking, from outward appearances, that I’m a future sweet spinster dog lady. Maybe not so future.
Okay, it’s true I’m a nice, polite person who loves dogs and children. But I also love violent movies, racy novels, rock and roll and everything science fiction. I have a (small) tattoo. I am overly fond of the f-bomb when I’m with my friends, and the word ‘crap’ when I’m in public. (I try not to say it on school visits. I try.)
There is, however, no getting around the fact that I live with my mother (and a nun). So integrating The Good Girl with The Twenty-First Century girl is sometimes awkward.
Not long after mom moved in with me (or me with her), I was cleaning the kitchen and singing along to Ben Folds Five “Song for the Dumped.” It’s a great song. But maybe not so much when you forget your mom has never heard you use a particular word in a particular phrase. (By now she’s heard me use that word a lot.)
Then there was the incident with The Tudors. There I was happily watching guilty pleasure TV, when Mom comes in the living room and asks if I’m watching porn.
Me: Oh My God NO! And if I was, I wouldn’t be watching it in the living room! (Though she had a point. I’m thrilled see books into TV like True Blood and Game of Thrones but seriously. So. Much. Naked.)
It’s not so much that Mom (or anyone else) tells me what I can and can’t watch or listen to. It’s just that living with a parent is… inhibiting.
It’s also probably why I write YA. I have conversations like this all the time:
Mom: Is that what you’re wearing?
Me: No, it’s what I put on to annoy you before I put on what I’m wearing.
Mom: If you worked steadily instead of waiting until your assignment is due, you wouldn’t have to stay up so late to get it done.
Me: I’m going out tonight.
Mom: Text me when you get there. And before you start home. And at hourly intervals. And don’t ride in cars with strangers. Or boys. Or strange boys.
Hang on. There was a point to this story. Oh yeah…
So, this morning, I have the house to myself. No Sister Maria Von Trapp upstairs. Mom is off at a quilting bee or whatever. Just me and the dogs and the irresistible urge to dance around in my socks and underwear like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.
Or maybe I’ll sing along to songs in the key of F-bomb.
Or maybe I’ll watch historical costume porn.
Or maybe I’ll ride in cars with strange boys.
Or maybe I’ll sit here in my bathrobe and write a blog post about the things that I could do while I have the house to myself.