And Then I Moved Home Again

Dear Future Leslee,

Do you ever make decisions – big, important, potentially live-altering decisions that you find yourself regretting mere moments after having committed to them? Because I don’t, usually, but I just moved back in with my Mom. I’m thinking this might have been the worst idea I’ve ever had, and I once shaved all the hair off my forearms because I thought it would keep me cooler in the summer.

Keep in mind, my family is insane. Crazy potatoes. Banana-sandwich. I haven’t lived in the ol’ homestead for almost three years, and to be honest, I had started to forget all of the psycho that was contained in that one small bungalow. I would look back on memories from my childhood and somehow they seemed so remote and charming that it made everything okay.

Home: Where Dreams Go to Die

For example, there was that one time I came home and found the upstairs fridge sawed in half and left on the front lawn, or that time I found two garbage bags full of socks and underwear on my bed. Apparently, one of my aunts thought that I could really use several bags of used intimates, and they were actually offended when I didn’t want the stuff. I always have to be careful about eating stuff in the fridge, because there is a fairly good chance that it was left in the fridge by someone who doesn’t live in my house to be picked up by someone else who doesn’t live in my house.

Those were older, less upsetting memories. During highschool, which was really not so long ago, my uncle (who inhabits the basement apartment) would have loud, naked pool parties with his four hundred pound girlfriends. I don’t even know what part of that last sentence to italicize. It’s all terrible.

I’m not here to judge, but I really feel like giant, naked, middle-aged ladies do not need to cavort around my backyard. Just a thought.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a house full of family members, half of which do not live there. Did I mention that I’m an only child? Did I mention that I kind of hate people? Because I don’t, usually, but I am not usually awoken from a peaceful sleep to the sounds of my relatives arguing about windows or dog-grooming.

All of this, really, would be bearable if only I didn’t feel like a squatter in my own home. For one thing, I have way too much stuff for a childhood bedroom. I don’t eat like anyone else in my family, and the fridge is filled with crap that I have no interest in. Most infuriatingly, I have been home three days now and still have no internet. I am writing to you, friends and neighbors, from the uncertain embrace of local coffee-shop Wifi.

Pretty much the only reason I haven't killed everybody

I wouldn’t blame you for scoffing at my “first world problems”. Sure, internet access is not the biggest thing ever. After all, I have a roof over my head and a family that loves and supports me enough to let me crash at home while I save up for school. But like anything else in my family, being internet-less is more harrowing than it seems.

Thursday morning, when I realized my predicament, I went to my uncle (the keeper of the internets) and asked him for the Wifi password. He did not have it, and vehemently blamed my cousin, the most recent of my mother’s roommates. My uncle gestured to a pile of scrap paper, yellow sticky notes and torn receipts.

“It’s usually here somewhere.” He said. My heart sank. “Ask your Sopie, she has it.”

It’s true, my Sopie did live with my mom, and did use the Wifi while she was there. Nine months ago. Needless to say, my Sopie no longer has the password to my mother’s Wifi.

We tried a few things, but the internets did not cooperate. My uncle told me to go downstairs and sit in front of his computer, and call Bell, and make Bell fix it. Somehow. Magically. I declined, but did decide later to use his internet to check my book of faces.

That’s when I realized that he’d left his porn open on the desktop.

I wish I was kidding.

So anyway, I guess the moral of the story is that no matter how weird you think your family is, I win, motherfucker.

Also it took me an hour and forty minutes to get to work today. I live a twenty-minute drive from work. It’s heartbreaking.

The good news is that I have a real, honest-to-goodness interview for a real, full-time job at the hospital tomorrow, which I  am going to kick ass at. And it will be awesome.

All my love, at least until I kill someone,

Past Leslee.

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About leslei

Listen, I like to use the eff word. If that is going to be a problem you should probably just turn this car around RIGHT NOW.
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4 Responses to And Then I Moved Home Again

  1. This is exactly my fear, and why I’m working in a terrible job in Ottawa rather than relocating. I’m terrified of moving back into my mother’s house and perpetuating a stereotype about nerdy dudes in their late 20’s…
    My family might not be quite as charmingly wacky as yours, but they tried their hardest.

  2. Trevor says:

    You know, the naked pool parties… that was a thing. Like, that really happened. I know. I saw. I was there. I came out with a necklace of ears and a thousand-yard stare. I’m still not entirely okay with it.

    Good talk, guys.

  3. Heather says:

    “And how old are YOU?”

    “Not old enough”.

  4. Sophie says:

    Bell definitely can’t help you. MAYBE the company who made your wireless router can. But like I said, try Googling for the user manual first, if nothing else I suggested works.

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