While there has been an unofficial countdown going on for a little while now, as of today I have begun formally counting the sleeps until me, my cats, and a big old rented cargo van pull up to our new apartment in Toronto. Gennie C, LTP and Merlin will already be there, unpacking and celebrating and shedding. I will unload all my worldly possessions, wave my parents goodbye, crack open a bottle of wine and make my new roommates promise me that if I ever again speak of staying with my parents for more than 48 hours, they will shoot a blow-dart soaked in tranquilizer into my neck and duct-tape me to the wall until I regain my senses.
Do not mistake me: I am deeply grateful to my parents for taking in their tangerine-haired wastrel of a daughter. They have fed me, clothed me, and bought me necessities for seven weeks now. They helped me get my boxes home when I ran out of money to ship them. Hell, my mom flew to Calgary to help me *pack* those boxes (she also made me the best soup I have ever tasted). I would never, not for an instant, want to imply that I am anything less than speechless with appreciation at how awesome they have been.
But there's always a however. And when one's wastrel daughter is a twenty-five-year-old poet and professional shit-disturber, and when one's parents are the very traditional European sort prone to fits of antiquing and early rising, and when one's father in particular is blessed with a streak of quaint sexism with a healthy side of racism...yeah. Seven weeks can be a long time.
I have not forgotten all of the survival techniques that I learned as a young woman. I listen to my ipod when trapped in the car and flatly refuse to watch any programming on the Fox network. I try to keep from pointing out the underlying messages of violence in the commercials. I bite the insides of my cheeks and dug my nails into my palms.
I am ready now. I am ready to rebuild my fortress, retreat into a universe of my own making where I will not be reprimanded for refusing to wear a skirt and makeup every day or called a "fallen woman" without irony. I am looking forward to being able to discuss anything faintly resembling politics without being told to adjust my tinfoil hat. I am looking forward to life with my friends in my city.