Home alone

My parents went to Switzerland for something job-related. I didn't really care what they did, but they were gone for a week starting last Saturday which meant I would have the house to myself. The only practically difficult part about it was that I'd have to navigate Boston on my own by car once they dropped themselves off at Logan airport. Trial by fire... I win. Though it took me 20 extra minutes in the rat maze than a veteran driver would've needed to get from MIT to I-93 (Cambridge to Charles MGH to Beacon Hill to Charles/MGH to Cambridge to Charles MGH to Storrow Drive and outta here!), it was worth it to achieve the skill of getting into and out of Boston. It's still scary; getting on and off I-93 at Boston has the feeling of taking off and landing on an aircraft carrier.

Those cats, they want food all the time - except when they're too good for it. They wake me up at 7 am - or rather Banjo does with his bawling - to be fed. And once I get back to sleep, Banjo wakes me up again to say that he's finished eating and wants to be let out. I wish I could set up a Rube Goldberg device that allowed me to feed them and let them out with the press of a few buttons on a console beside my bed.

It was depressing during the first couple days when I just ate leftovers from meals cooked by my parents before they left. It was crap, and it brought me down. Courage (or maybe necessity) drove me to visit the local food store. I'd seen my parents cook pan-fried chicken before, and it looked easy, so I bought a load of chicken thighs for myself. Then I started getting carried away: Oh look, there are pop-tarts, I like those. I haven't had bagels for a while, either, and one can't have bagels without cream cheese. Hmm, I don't feel like cooking every day this week, so I'll also grab some canned soup. I ended up juggling an unexpected armload of boxes and bags, and it was too late to get a basket. I probably looked like a shopping dumbass. It's no matter, because shopping and cooking on my own dollar (minus the hour of stovetop gas I used to heat the chicken) felt empowering, and it eased me closer to the idea of living on my own. Most importantly, I got the chicken just the way I always wanted it: overcooked! I'm not sharing.

The second-best part about being alone was that I could mutter and swear around the house all I wanted. At the cats, at the Red Sox, at the Wii, whatever. The cats, with their plastered-on grins, have no idea what a "fucking bitch" or a "crappy bastard" is when I scream it at them, so I just completely went to town with the yelling, and they continued to love me for my ability to scoop dry cat kibble into a small dish.

The best part was that I could watch The Hills or Real World on the television without being kicked off.