Country Road, Take Me Home, To the Place Where I Belong . . .

Woooo, John Denver moment. I went to find out what the new Blogging for Books topic is this month, and lo and behold, it's about going home. There were two choices, but I can't even tell you what the other one was because I barely looked at it.

Oh, the irony. See, I still live at home, and I've never lived anywhere else. "Home" in this case meaning where my parents live. I think I'm in a better position than someone who moves back home after being away. That messes with the parent-child relationship a bit. My relationship as the child to my parents is firmly intact.

When I watch Dr. Phil, I feel guilty that I still live at home. But then I see the little moochers with no jobs who contribute nothing to the household and still expect their moms to fold their socks. Then I don't feel so bad. I consider how very lucky I am: I get to sit here and write all day. I have grown more as a writer in the years since I left college than in all of the years before. Why? Because I have had all this mostly uninterrupted time to write. How many parents do you know that would let their 26-year-old daughter continue to live with them rent-free while pursuing her heart's desire?

I do earn my keep. I cook supper nearly every night. Which is why the whole house smells like last night's fish. The WHOLE house. I can smell it in the basement.

I also clean every week. Mom and Dad have enough to deal with at work--it's a big burden off their shoulders to come home to a relatively clean house and a ready meal. And they did that for me for years--it's about time the payback started.

When I was 13 and I decided I definitely wanted to be a writer, I said that when I was rich and famous, I would buy a castle in England and my parents would have a whole wing to themselves. Ah, the idealism of youth. I've got it all figured out now. I shall be rich and famous. Everyone goes into early retirement--except me because I will be the main breadwinner, and who wants to stop writing anyway? We will buy a ridiculously large RV with the best modern conveniences (because I don't do well away from indoor plumbing) and we will follow the NASCAR season. I will write on the road, Dad and I will go to all the races, and Mom will chill in the air-conditioned RV and read and write because she's not into NASCAR. Sounds good to me.

I don't think home is where you live. If it is, then why do people say they're going home for Christmas? Home is where your parents are. Duh. And lucky me, I've never had to leave.

(Mom, don't cry.)