Finally, after 5 weeks, I’m home. Only it doesn’t feel like my home.
It feels like someone else’s home.
Someone responsible. Someone with cleaning OCD. Someone who happily entertains at a moment’s notice instead of having to be warned 6 months in advance so they can “tidy up a bit.” Someone who hangs professionally framed art on the walls instead of pages ripped from last year’s “Nuns Having Fun” calendar secured with a staple gun. Someone who spends their money on new floors and paint instead of yarn and Nutella.
Someone who’s an adult.
You can see why I’d be uncomfortable, right?
Last night I was trying to figure out where to put a Christmas tree and my red, three-eyed, furry monstroctopus when I heard a familiar yacking sound followed shortly by Hobbes throwing up on the new carpet.
Ten minutes later the oven door fell off.