True Story

This is the first of many weekends to be spent cleaning out this God forsaken house. Today, I gave up pulling weeds outside because of the largest impregnated spider I have ever seen. That was just the last straw. I am preparing to leave and that's what makes it all worth it. It might just be 3 months of doing things like pulling up tree-sized weeds from the corners of my fence (as seen here), or raking up a 2-year-old plastic bag of cat shit and liter left outside the bedroom window of an old (disgusting, WoW addict) roommate.

This is the first of many weekends where my boyfriend and I will have to give up any daytime enjoyment for practically's sake, as well as empty the garage for the umpteenth time, have a yard sale, have tile put in the bathrooms and laundry room, and repaint the interior. We are not selling it, mind you. Or should I say, my father is not selling it. Not in this market; there is no way. (There are 3 houses in foreclosure on my block alone.) When my boyfriend and I are gone, the house will be rented. And best of all: out of my hands.

This could be the first of many weekends where my father comes into town, means to do good, but ends up stirring up all this unsettled bullshit inside me in the process. We've already argued about this house recently. And, we are still both a little sore from it. It just so happened to follow a therapy session in which I admitted to Anna, my doctor, that I felt as if all the grimy corners of this house represent all the parts of my unexamined self; as if the corners of that self are left unclean because I am too lazy to clean them out. How it's a terrible trait, that I can't keep a house, but then my intellectual self speaks up and says I've had other priorities, that I'm young and haven't yet figured out all the details of taking care of myself while expecting nothing but achievements in art, relationships, school, work, friendships, etc. Then I step away from both selves and tell myself none of this is real.

I know I connect those objects with people and events so the thoughts ticker passed my mind's eye something like this house unclean corners father failures. Since when am I a little girl? Sometimes I wish he had never been in a financial position to buy this house five years ago, when the market was high, because now the market is low, and so are wages, and so is job availability. My father is a baby boomer, one of a generation familiar with recessions. He is also an Italian immigrant of the post WWII kind--Ellis Island, the whole nine, the third of 8 children, 16 years old when he came to America with his mother and siblings. The oldest men had to quit school and work. I know he is proud that I am about to receive a master's degree while he never had the chance to finish high school. I am sure it is part of fulfilling his American Dream; that, and being a successful, self-actualized beach dwelling business man. It actually worked for him.

Because he still owns this house he can still tell me what to do. I hate being told what to do. I realize I am childlike this way, but I don't think anyone really likes it. I think most just tolerate it because of some false belief that it is necessary to tolerate such treatment, like say, from a boss, in the adult world. Who made up these rules? Probably the same people who made up the rule that I can't throw the weeds into the retention pound behind my house. A. It's just where the neighborhood shit goes. B. Earth is earth. People like my father who want you to bag the weeds you just pulled up and place them on the curb so the garbage man can take them to the part of the earth that is government designated for bulk trash.

Sometimes I can't handle the modern formalities of owning anything. I would make an exception for my car, and at this point, just live it in. After taking care of a house for the last five years I want to own as little as possible for the next five years. I am grateful I have had this house for the last five years (although it may not sound like it, the way this is going). Just, have you ever felt like your things own you? It's never as overwhelming as when that thing is a house. I dream only in houses. About the dogs of old boyfriends. And escaping.

Escape is coming, but in the form of more commitment. More commitment for just 3 more months. And then? And then we leave. I quit my job. Sell nearly everything I own. Gather the cats. Go towards the beach. For six months or so. Relax. Work to live. Cut expenses. Lack possessions. Make some music. Eat. Love. Sleep.