GAINESVILLE — After months of living in various states of homelessness and mooching, I finally have my own apartment again. Yet I still find myself sleeping on the couch.
It’s not so bad, since the reason is that I still haven’t found my sheets. Not to mention, I own a pretty comfy couch (though it’s def only medium-sized). And because of how things are sorting and working out, the living room has the illusion of being cleaner because so much of the mess is behind the couch.
But I have a job to attend, there’s beer in the fridge and life is good.
This mess I’ve made will probably last until this weekend, though, because I have so much crap. It’s amazing the amount of things one can acquire without really noticing. Thank God my friend Linda and her boyfriend, Curtis, were able to help me move everything yesterday.
Originally, I hadn’t planned on having so much with me. I had hoped to leave some things in my parents’ storage room, where some of it has been through my entire college career. The rest of my belongings were put there this last year while my parents redecorated the house and repainted all of the rooms.
My parents, however, insisted that I remove everything I own from their property with very few exceptions. Very few as in 1.
In the process of removing the liquor I had stored at my parents during my period of homelessness, I discussed the remaining liquor with my mother. She asked if the Montezuma tequila was mine and I informed her that it was not. She offered it, but I refused. I told her I’d tried it before (fool me once).
I then told her that if there was anything I wanted to take, it was the one in the box, which was an unopened box of Crown Royal that has been on the liquor shelf for as long as I was tall enough to see onto it. To my surprise, she informed me that the bottle is mine.
We brought it down and took it out to the living room, where I took the bag out of the box and then the bottle out of the bag. On the bottle was a note indicating that it was a christening gift to me from my Godmother and that the bottle is to be opened on the day of my wedding.
After talking about how cool that is and how cool my Godmother is (and how I’d have to make sure she was around when I opened it, too), my mother granted me permission to leave the bottle on her liquor shelf instead of taking it with me. After all, I’d just have to bring it back to the Quad-Cities for my wedding day.
Jean and I have been dating for eight years, and we’re pretty sure that we’ll want to get married some day, and even our parents have asked us about it and told us they expect we’ll end up hitched. And when that happens, I can say almost certainly that we’ll be going back to the Quad-Cities for the ceremony.
We’ll be going home.
I don’t live there, anymore. When I spring for a plane ticket, I’ll probably only go see Jean in St. Louis instead of heading back. And there’s only one of my possessions left in the Quad-Cities.
But that one bottle of whisky is like a painter between a boat and a dock, reminding me where home will always be.
P.S. A painter is a rope used to tie off a boat.