First up, I'm pretty sure that MOST of my readers can tell whether I'm being serious or whether I'm being obnoxious, but either way I feel compelled to tell you that I'm not actually a pot smoker. Obviously, if I WAS, I wouldn't be stupid enough to write about it on my blog. Don't get me wrong. I'VE TRIED IT. This is Portland for fuck's sake, which is why I hate the term "420 friendly" so very, very much, but that's exactly what I meant by that line in my last post. I really don't care if you smoke weed in my basement. I don't think there's anything wrong with it. It's just not really my thing. (Even if I sometimes think it would be cool to become Pot Head Mom who is always chill with her kids and builds lego dragon castles until the sun comes up.)
That's not me. As boring as it can be, I'm a mostly responsible adult. I have a good job. I'm almost never late. My clients love me. I'm all caught up on my bills for the first time in a year. I feel like a grown up! I do love me some chaos, true, but my children's safety will not be compromised just so I can live out my crazy commune fantasy. I'd like to point out that I've made some rather large, PAINFUL decisions, some years ago, some quite recently, in order to do what I think is best for my children and specifically to protect my daughter. (Not that my son doesn't need protecting, he just has penis privilege and she doesn't.) I've never left my children home alone with my roommates. I rarely even left them with Joel! Most of my crazy life takes place when I'm childless and even then, it's mostly just me working 10-hour days and then passing out exhausted.
But I was raised in a loud, crazy house that always had people in it. I never even saw half of my friend's houses when I was a kid because the action was always happening at my place. That's how I like it. It's how I'm comfortable. But it isn't for everyone! That's what that last post was about - it was about being as obnoxious as I possibly could so I could weed out anyone who takes issue with me being who I am.
It worked wonders. MAGICAL FAIRY WOO WOO WONDERS.
I found exactly what I was looking for.
Remember my friend Cynthia? When I posted a link to the ad on Facebook, she said, "Just come move in with me!" At first I wasn't sure if she was serious or if it would work out at all, but the more we talked, the more it sounded perfect. She needs help making her mortgage now that she's a single mom. I need a place to live. Cynthia doesn't cook. I need people to cook for. Our kids get along FANTASTICALLY and we already love each other in a freakish fan-girl culty way and so...
Westmont Farm is moving to St. John's.
To a PERFECTPERFECTPERFECT house where we all leave our dishes in the sink until we run out of cocktail glasses and finally remember to run the dishwasher. A home where there is love and tears and joy and grief and dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. Cyn and I have decided to call it the House of Hijinks.
Not only is the house in the North Portland, but it's in St. John's, which might be one of my favorite neighborhoods in all the land. I love it there because all the awkward 14-year old boys at the pool have gang tattoos and most of the moms own soldering masks. It's diverse. And beautiful. And totally the opposite of my current neighborhood, where there are no neighborhood kids for Alex and Genoa to play with. At Cynthia's, they'll not only have Cynthia's daughter Gigi (who is ten!), but a whole crew of kids their own ages. Gigi and Alex already caught a snake together in the field at the end of the street. WE'RE MOVING IN WITH A GIRL WHO CATCHES SNAKES. It's kismet.
I can also totally put my shoes on, walk out the front door, cross a mini version of the Golden Gate Bridge and BE INSIDE Forest Park in exactly 1.5 miles. You can see my forest from the house.
Of course, moving is always bitter sweet. I love my room mates. I'll be sad to see them go. I'll get to take the chickens with me, sure, but there's no way to pack all the memories of the person I became inside these walls. It's also not exactly a picnic that the reason Cynthia needs roommates is because she's grieving the loss of her husband. The only redeeming goodness in any of this is that the timing worked well for both of us and now we both have a soft place to land.
This chapter won't start until the beginning of August, but I know it's going to be my best one yet.
Anyone want to help me pack?