Well, I have officially moved into my studio. Firstly, I didn't use my (electric) stove for a straight week because I was scared to death it would just explode upon first use. Why I believed this as passionately as I did, I cannot explain. But I honest to God thought it would just go up in a plume of angry fiery death.
It didn't. I finally used it to make Gina and me a romantic candlelit dinner consisting of fried pork chops, huge fried wedge potatoes, and carrots smothered in brown sugar and melted butter. (Freaking AMAZING).
Secondly, my mother thinks it is hilarious that one of the first things I discovered in my new place was that the coffee maker, when turned on, will keep your coffee warm because of the hot plate under the glass beaker thing. How or why I would have known this very interesting information before hand, I don't know. Nonetheless, she was highly amused by the awe and wonder that clouded my voice when I told her.
Thirdly, the only thing I had in my pantry for the first week was a gallon of Captain Morgan's Spiced rum. Every night before bed, I would go over to my mom's and secretly steal a bag of Apples and Cinnamon oatmeal, a slice of butter, and some brown sugar. I finally dragged my ass to the store after mom ran out of butter and bought food.
Since moving in, I found out that I can't take a shower longer than nine minutes, I cannot steal internet from my neighbors, and that while everyone in the complex knows me (by name), I am still struggling to remember even a few of theirs. I was invited to a bar-b-que that is happening "sometime in the summer. It's too cold now, ya' hear?"
Gina has been taking good care of my studio. I like to just go home and flop on my bed and not move. I'll watch her, because I often bring her home with me after school. She looks at ease for a short time, then shuffles from one foot to another, and finally she breaks down, gets out the multi-purpose cleaner or vacuum and gets to work.
Now, I wouldn't describe myself as a slob. I do put my dishes in the dish washer, I do wipe down the stove periodically, and I will even go so far as to actually throw away my used kleenexes. For me, that makes my space clean. The scraps of paper that fall out of my notebooks and land on the floor, or my wet towels hanging over my chairs won't bother me in the slightest.
Gina says she doesn't mind. I tend to think she is telling the truth, too. She smiles while she cleans, talks to me, and sings if I play music. I roll around on my bed, rumpling the sheets and making myself look even more disheveled than before while she carefully keeps her hair tied back in a long sleek ponytail and texts my neighbor Marcel, or her other make out buddy Carl.
It's not my fault I like to crush as much shit as I can into my trashcan, or that the bane of my existence is creating clean laundry from dirty clothes. In my perfect world, as soon as I was done with something, it would just be gone. If I needed it again, it would appear in my magic wall compartment like in the book "Uglies."
I think Gina likes the idea of making things look new again. She does it every morning when she takes her shower, picks out her clothes, carefully applies make up, and somehow manages to pull off a look that says, "I may have just rolled out of bed, but you'll never know."
I like to think I could pull that off. But my just woke up face is more like, "Oh...it's okay if you put it on the hanger under the bed."
"What?" The other person might ask.
"I know," I'll say, trying to explain. "If you turn onto the left over by the cat, you'll see it by your door."
And the other person will shake their head, pat my shoulder and leave me to talk in my almost consciousness. Basically, me just rolling out of bed has my hair sticking up in all directions, both dried and wet drool on my face, the make up from the day before smudged all over my eyes, and flailing, flapping arms.
It's not a good look for me.
Back to my main point though. I have been living at the studio for about two weeks, and while my dad has diligently gone out of his way to make little remarks like, "Are you ever going to visit us again?" or "Dash misses you all the time." I have enjoyed living by myself. I can stay up as late as I want; I don't have to be mindful of anyone else's sleep schedule, eating schedule, or potty schedule; I can cook food that I just want. The perks of living in my own place seem relatively endless.
Plus, its all old people that live in the complex so they can't hear me even when I am loud.
For Thanksgiving weekend, even though I am by myself, Mom and I still planned a vacation together. We decided when our Puerto Vallarta plans fell through because of Mexico's political turmoil, to go to Michigan instead.
Mom rented us a "honeymoon penthouse suite" that is literally less than fifty paces from Lake Michigan. I can hear the sound of the lake crashing against the beach as I write, in fact. We arrived last night.
Last night was of course Thanksgiving.
Since I have been telling people where I am going for Thanksgiving, everyone, Gina excluded, asks the same question: Oh, you have family up there?
No, I don't have family in Michigan. My mother and I just decided to take a vacation over the time when we both have off from school and work.
They then ask: What is your family going to do without you?
I tell them: I don't know. Gorge on turkey and pie I suppose. It's not like I eat a lot anyway.
They probably assume I am trying to be funny because they always laugh. It turns into nervous hiccups though when I look at them with my then expressionless brown eyes.
Mom and I arrived at our "honeymoon penthouse suite" at around six thirty. We looked around our place, (what I later dubbed a septagon sex cave because it has seven sides, (which I should have correctly called a heptagon sex cave)), and were a little disappointed. The lights here are not very bright. Which I guess should be romantic...except that I like light.
My hunger couldn't keep us in the heptagon sex cave for long, and mom suggested we go to the casino to eat at the buffet. It was the only place open nearby, and my empty stomach could not refuse.
We drove to the casino and I was delighted to find out that it was an Indian Casino. How ironic, I thought. It was Thanksgiving and we were going to an Indian Casino.
We drove up, had an increasingly difficult time parking and finding the entrance, but then we made it in.
I was not immediately disappointed because I knew they had to keep them somewhere further in. They were supposed to be wearing only tattered loincloths anyways. Mom and I clicked in our smart heels all the way down the hall to the buffet room. I looked around expectantly.
I probably pursed my lips and wrinkled my forehead at this point. Mom was chatting with the cashier though and didn't see it right away.
"How is the weather down there?" The old lady asked. She had a short face.
"Oh, about the same here," Mom answered as she slid her cards back into her wallet.
"When we left, it was about forty-five degrees out," I chimed in, still searching. Mom noticed but didn't say anything until we got sat at a table.
"What on earth are you looking for?" She asked, moving the ketchup, sugars, salt and pepper to the far side of the table.
"Well," I said, beginning my explanation, "It is an Indian Casino. I was hoping there would be lots of hot, half naked, shaggy haired boys in frayed loincloths jumping up and down beating on drums saying, 'oh whoa, whoa, whoa!'"
She sat silently as a smile crossed her face. She barked out a laugh.
"I mean, picture it, Mom!" I began illustrating with my hands. "They would be all tan and handsome, totally ripped, and have hands prints painting on their bodies. Like here," I put a hand on my boob, "Or here," I put a hand on my cheek. "It says, 'touch me here!'" I fell into a fit of giggles, and Mom followed suit.
"I don't think it's that kind of casino." She had finally caught her breath.
"I know," I said with a sigh that I directed upwards towards my bangs, "But wouldn't that be nice?"
We piled food up on our plates and munched on food that was okay. Finally we got up and left the casino that smelled like old people and lacked eye candy. We went back home, I jumped in the hot tub, and then my mother and I proceeded to fall into several fits of giggles when we commented on posts on Facebook directed at each other.
It was probably the coffee that made me so goofy, but I like to think I am just naturally hilarious. Finally Mom told me to shut up and go to sleep. I made myself do just that.
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