I start most of my days unremarkably – fidgeting through the short coordinates of tasks required to unlock and silence my phone-as-alarm-clock. I’m sure it’s at least 83% rote muscle memory, but the short sequence is varied just enough in dexterity and cognitive requirements that I’m irrevocably awake by the time the noise stops.

But bed is warm. Bed is good. Still is good. So in ceding the fight between how I am and how I wish I was, I split the difference by setting up my morning meds, caffeine fix and a small “pre-breakfast” on my nightstand before going to bed; then when I wake up, I thank Cheese for #firstworld technology, toss the pills down the hatch, and burrow in with my fizz and furchild to quickly thumb through email and facebook for anything urgent, then spend another hour or so catching up on the news.

I make it a priority to read a handful of sources from varying perspectives; but I also make it a priority to not just Hoover through a bunch of facts and circumstances, but to read columns, and editorials, and essays – the things that tell you how those facts and circumstances are affecting the world around you, and how other people – people like you, people very unlike you – are interpreting those facts and circumstances.  The things that get to the heart of why the facts matter in the first place.

Do I want to know what I’m talking about before engaging in a conversation about it? Of course. For me, the why has always been the reason for knowing the facts in the first place, and the thing worthy and in need of discourse. Why is it happening? Why does it matter? Why is this person, or group, or place, more affected than this other? Why has it changed? Why hasn’t it changed?

But lately, I’ve been just sort of uneasy about how…well, honestly? How vapid many of my conversations seem to have become. It started off somewhat intentionally, if I’m honest, though (as always) with the best of intentions. In short, I just wanted a break from being everyone’s “thinky friend” at best; and if I’m being really honest, to see if I could do anything about the creeping suspicion that I was truly, deeply loved, but frequently also humored, or tolerated, by those around whom I let my guard down. For lack of better phrasing, I wanted to try to give people a break.

I always have been and will be intense, period; relatedly, I’ve never been one much for small talk among good friends; I’m not going to strike up a policy debate with a sales associate or fellow air traveler (don’t get me wrong, I’ll totally take the bait and go there if you want to, I’ve just at least –finally – learned not to start it). But I’ve just never understood the point of, or been very good at, spending a three hour lunch with a girlfriend or a night at the bar with a guy I’m getting to know… talking about nothing but clothes, or TV plots, or workouts. I go deep, fast, and am most comfortable treading there -  but most of all, it’s not intentional, or a concerted effort – it’s genuinely just how I think and talk and operate, and is just as natural and default-mode for me as the more, erm, normal? conversations are for (presumably) a lot of other people.

So after I came to the shocking realization that what I find “stimulating” many folks find “draining”, then getting over my frustration (and mild resentment) that if it’s not the way most of the my world works, it doesn’t much matter that I happen to find extended, little-else-but-skimming-the-surface interactions equally exhausting; I went about trying to start with what is, rather than what “should” be, and adapt accordingly.

Theoretically speaking, this meant – or I intended it to only mean – not being the one to start the conversations about the “deep stuff”, keeping a keen eye out for when I’m going there by someone else’s definition when I’m not by my own, and trying to bob around where other folks are most comfortable, most of the time, so that when I drag them in to the deep end and force them to stay there with me a minute, they know it’s because it matters, and not because I just think it’s fun to watch people sweat and shiver at the same time.

Practically speaking, it’s meant choking on a lot of urgency on my part, confusion and frustration over where to “hook the buoys”, so to speak, and spending the better part of six months either remaining relatively aloof and quiet, or verbally vomiting one of a handful of pop culture facts at random tangentially-related to the topic at hand in a woefully failed attempt to interact without dragging people into the deep end against their will and without swimmies, and rekindling some mild social anxiety in the process.

But most of all, it’s meant not greater peace or ease in my relationships, but a palpable resignation and apathy on my part; a subconscious, piecemeal drift away from even knowing and caring about “the things” myself, until one day not long ago I woke up and started to “read the news” as I always do, and read a few fluff essays on gender politics, and pop psych in business pieces…but mostly advice columns, and vegan mommy fitness blogs instead. And then realized that’s really all I had read for at least a week or so. Nothing (much) against either, but I’m neither being cheated on nor questioning my parentage, and I’m a sworn-childless unmarried twentysomething who can be brought to the verge of tears by really good pork belly and fantasizes about bopping little calorie counting gym-bunny-foo-foo upside *her* head for once.

Methinks I just might hath swung too far in that fair, far, most opposite of directions. Such that perhaps, I might actually be somewhat responsible for the aforementioned, disproportionately vapid balance of content of my passive information streams these days. Maybe I’m not seeing the conversations, sometimes, precisely because I’m not starting them.

So #sorryI’mnotsorry, but yeah, I’m reading and watching real news again. And slowly, finally, caring about real news again. Like, a lot. And while I’m still going to work to keep the font-of-current-events at a gentle trickle instead of a firehose, I’m going to keep honoring the part of me that feels sincerely put upon to actually talk about what I hear, and see, and think about going on in the world.

I’m going to trust that just as I would never expect – or even want – my fitness-obsessed friends to just shut up completely and never talk to me about anything physical, physical, let’s…get… – because it’s part of who they are, and what makes them passionate, and happy, and them – that the people who care about me most will want me to stay true to that fire, my armchair senator, stuck in traffic daydreaming about how to solve the world’s problems. And I’m going to trust that for some folks, they keep me around partly because I make them think about certain things. Like, make them. Force feed it.

So here they shall be, your mid-week Brain Wheaties. The newsy vitamins you know you need, but aren’t particularly inclined to dig past the front pages or first 15 minutes to find. State of the Union coverage, the Pope resigning for the first time in almost 600 years, that batshit murderous rogue cop in California? That’s all above-the-fold stuff – a hop, click and a jump on virtually any news outlet of choice and you’ve got all the deets you need and then some.

For now? If you read nothing else this week, go check out this article in Esquire about the actual individual who fatally shot Osama Bin Laden…and has been left completely hung out to dry: “Unlike former SEAL Team 6 member Matt Bissonnette (No Easy Day), they do not rush to write books or step forward publicly, because that violates the code of the ‘quiet professional.’ Someone suggested they might sell customized sunglasses and other accessories special operators often invent and use in the field. It strains credulity that for a commando team leader who never got a single one of his men hurt on a mission, sunglasses would be his best option [emphasis mine].”

And then come back and give me your best why.

Last week for Tenant’s Meal, my dad decided just as I got back from the store that, um, actually, he was really hungry right now, so how about we go out and grab something, and I just cook for Madge and her friend tomorrow since he’d be out of town?

Done.

Part of the way this whole deal is designed is essentially to be a game in menu costing – meaning, that I’m paid a flat X amount per Tenant’s Meal (of at least 3 courses), and obviously, the greater the delta between my food costs and that amount, the greater the amount I pocket.

So naturally, I pay attention to what’s, um, featured at a few various markets on the given day I’m going to be cooking. Obviously, I check out the specials for the deals, but I’ve also been introduced to new things, or encouraged to actually try making others I normally just enjoy when someone else is at the stove, simply because it’s put in front of me. Which is how I finally discovered two things last week: a) Mommy wow! I can cook fish, like the kind with scales and gills, after all (and craptarts is it easy!) and b) Steelhead Trout. At all. <—This is the part you’ll thank me for later.

Before I go further, I should make a distinction that I’m not nervous about cooking all fish. In fact, shellfish has been my go-to crutch protein for years. Whether living on my own or con familia, I’ve pretty much always had a bag of raw shrimp in the freezer to defrost and sauté with lemon and soy sauce (I save the flaming onion stack and “Japanese egg roll!” for birthdays) or obscene, it’s-nights-like-this-it’s-good-to-be-single amounts of garlic, with a splash of lemon, white wine, maybe some roasted tomatoes, whatevs. Seriously, frozen (raw) shrimp have been the difference between real.live.dinner. and “pierce film to vent” more times than I’m proud to admit. 

They aren’t just sweatpants food, though, oh no. Need a semi-impressive dinner for an untold number of people? Enter seafood risotto – shrimp, scallops, a little lump crab for good measure; serve with massive salad, fabulous bread and good wine, and it’s like literal loaves and fishes that can be stretched between two or twenty. Bunch of carb-phobic killjoys? (HI, MOM!) Cioppino works just as well – and yes, it does have “fish-fish”, but somehow “select freshest firm, white fish available; cut in chunks; drop in pot” doesn’t petrify me the way “potentially scald yourself down to the bone with broiling hot popping fish oil” has. Same massive salad, maybe some pasta to serve alongside for the Carpe Calories crowd, and you’re good to go.

But fish fish? Like, the kind I’d happily eat 6 days a week if it didn’t stink up my kitchen or have scales ‘n stuff? I don’t know why, because I know that plenty of people who all but set toast on fire cook fish, successfully, on the regular – but I’ve just had this psychological hangup about cooking fish. I think partly because it’s been a pretty exclusive grill protein in my world – even in the dead of winter, my mom would whip up the salads and sides and all that fabulousness inside, prep the fish and all, but my dad would come home, light the grill, pour a drink, and go throw the fish on; come back in, and in the time he unpacked and settled in from work, ta-da, fish is done (the man takes roughly 7:34 to get ready for the day, shower-to-shoes, so this is not a long process). But seriously – when you can have nomnom grilled fish in January, why would you bother even risking stinking up your kitchen?

Because not everybody has a grill, and it’s oh-my-god-I’m-almost-angry-at-myself-easy, THAT’s why. Oh, and because it doesn’t stink up your kitchen! At least, it doesn’t have to.  If you have an oven, a few aromatics, fifteen minutes and some foil, you have no excuse to not be eating your half-priced, hot-pink, omega-3 packed sustainable filet of deliciousness as frequently as you damn well please. That’s right. Salmon-that’s-not-salmon, for half the cost of salmon, with the same nutrition as salmon. Boom.

By now, we all know how delicious and healthy and wonderful and sea-flesh-of-the-gods salmon is, right? But unfortunately, it’s not always the most sustainable option, and while wild salmon is definitely healthier and tastier (don’t waste your tastebuds, money, or eco-karma on farmed, y’all), it’s not always in season, aka particularly affordable. There’s also that thing where salmon has been the default “but we’re sick of chicken” protein in my house since roughly 1997, so delicious as it may be, it’s got some wear…some “meh”… some “vanilla fish”, if you will, attached to it. For me. Because I’m weird. Salmon isn’t special. Or on trend. And Tenant’s Meal is supposed to be special and on trend.

Trout, however, is making a comeback. It’s a great “local” option almost anywhere, because if you’ve got a big enough lake within 100 miles, you’re bound to have edible trout; it’s got many if not all of the same nutrients as the other, more popular anti-inflammatory favorites, and –wait for it – it’s generally a lot cheaper. So when I saw that there was some “steelhead trout” fishymahbob featured at my local market, I did a little googlin’ to figure out exactly what it was I was contemplating serving, and kind of flipped out – in a good way.

Steelhead trout is the exact same species as Rainbow Trout – it’s just the ocean-dwelling variety, whereas Rainbow Trout is found in lakes, rivers, streams and the like. Because it lives a more salmon-y lifestyle, it develops more like salmon, and therefore, ends up looking, and tasting, more like salmon – in fact, some markets will sell it as “salmon trout”, and in a blind taste test, it’s hard for a lot of average, “um…I just like fish?” types to tell them apart. It gets better – not only does it stand up to salmon on the plate, but in the nutritional deets, as well, with roughly the same amounts of omega-3’s, niacin and B12 as our former favorite pink fish.

I had to give it a shot, and mother of pescatarians, am I glad I did. We’ve already eaten it again since I made it the first time (and I’m about to go faceplant in the costco-sized leftovers as soon as I hit “publish”).

Naturally, there were other courses and veggies involved, but I’m trying to get better about remembering that I can, um, split up posts? That this internet thing, it’ll be here tomorrow, and the next day? So yeah. Sideshow noms to follow. But honestly? who needs em? You’re really not going to want to eat much else, I promise. It’s that good.

Smack Serve Yo Mama Broiled Steelhead Trout with Lemon and Herbs

adapted from epicurious.com

INGREDIENTS:

1 lb steelhead trout filets, (skin status doesn’t matter)

3 cloves garlic, minced (or ground into a paste; or 2 cloves worth of squeezy paste garlic)

2 TBSP fresh rosemary, chopped so insanely fine it’s almost dust-like (because you only have to get gum-stabbed by rosemary once to be suspect of it forever)

2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped similarly paste-fine (I actually used the squeezy basil for this instead, intentionally and preferably)

zest of one large or two meyer lemons

juice of the same

salt and pepper to taste

2 TBSP olive oil (give or take), plus more for the pan

TO-DO:

Make sure your oven racks are adjusted such that there’s one in the middle or higher, and one on the bottom or second-to-bottom slots.

Preheat broiler (There’s a button on your oven that says “BROIL” – Push it. THE END – usually – and if not, then select “LO / MED /HI” or comperable. Nothing scary, promise).

Line a baking sheet or roasting pan with foil and brush with olive oil

Mix the garlic, rosemary, basil, lemon zest, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and 1-2 TBSP of the olive oil. If you have a mortar and pestle, this would be a good time to bust it out. If not, make sure your ingredients really are chopped as finely as you can manage without including bits of your digits, then whisk it until your fingers go numb. Kidding. Kind of.

Place the fish on your prepared pan, skin-to-foil if your fish has skin (mine did). Spread the herb mixture over the exposed fleshy part of the fish,  covering evenly and heavily.

Place the fish under the broiler (on the middle rack or higher) for about 5 minutes, or just until it begins to really sear the meaty, face-up portion – but definitely before the herbs begin to brown or smell funny.

Switch your oven to it’s temperature-specific setting (this is often the “BAKE” button, but sometimes as vague as “START”) and adjust to 325F degrees. Move the fish to the lower rack and continue to let it do it’s thing for another 10-ish minutes, or until cooked to your desired doneness in the thickest section.*

Transfer to platter or plates, and consume without concern for carb or calorie (if that’s your thing).

*NOTE: If you have a huge piece of fish the size of a small toddler like they sell at Costco, and are preparing this planning to have leftovers to reheat later, go ahead and pull from the oven while the sides/thinner parts are ready-to-eat, but the middle/thickest portions are still a little underdone. That way, when you nuke your fish for lunch tomorrow, it’s got a little wiggle room to keep cooking, and you’re not angrily choking it down between sips of water, remembering how buttery and delicious it was last night and cursing the fluorescent desk lighting under which you’re now forced to consume such a delicacy. I mean, go ahead and curse the lighting, but don’t pile on by force-feeding yourself dry fish if you can help it.

The last time I moved back home with my parents (third time’s the charm!), my dad insisted that I write up a tenant’s contract, which we would all review, revise, and sign before nary a box crossed the threshold.

This was not mean-spirited, nor particularly unusual in our family. He’s always been a “get it in writing” kind of guy; proposing daddy-daughter nights in middle school via Outlook appointments (yes, my dad invited me to Chinese and the movies via email; and yes, I was using Outlook, albeit forcibly then, in middle school). Then, when it came time to discuss exactly how I was to plan going about procuring a vehicle, most of my friends’ parents were solidly in one of three camps: Camp “um, you save money and buy one, bratface! Nothing in life is free, uphill both ways, snow, *more loud noises*”; Camp “we’ll decide which of us most wants/needs a vehicle upgrade when the time comes, you’ll get the old one, and you’ll like it, how was practice, and where’s your sister?”; or Camp “don’t you worry your little coif about it, princess, daddy will make sure you have a vehicle in keeping with the image of ease and opulence we’ve so carefully cultivated for you and ourselves, now scurry along – and don’t forget to suck in!”

Yet again, I was in a camp of my own. While grateful I was expected to tend to my health and grades, and not asked to get a paying job to save for a car in addition, I also knew pretty instinctually I wouldn’t be trading gripes about sound systems with Princess-Barbie-Corvette-Just-Because campers, either, just as a matter of principle.

Correct on both counts: I had to write a proposal as to how I thought I should go about earning a car, then present it to my parents over dinner via PowerPoint deck. A few rounds of negotiations and revisions ensued, signatures were granted by all. In the end, the age, the degree of luxury, and the say I had in the final selection were all tied, accordingly, to an algorithm that accounted for my GPA, compliance with my health needs, overall attitude, and service efforts. This all took place either the summer or early fall of my freshman year of high school, so I had two years of knowing what to expect, and a fairly large degree of agency in determining my own fate (within my parents’ macro guidelines, i.e., nothing new, because why, for anyone, ever?; no convertible, because *death trap*, and nothing with more than 6 cylinders, because I may be liberal to the point of genuinely confounding 68% of my blood relatives, but lord help me if a very loud, low engine throttle doesn’t make me stand up a little straighter and squeal a little on the inside. In other words, because *death trap again*.)

So I almost forgot that it wasn’t just “Tuesday” for most people, when I had to draft a rental agreement before moving back home; what surprised people the most, it seemed, was that not only was I not insulted, I wanted one, too. And take a minute and hit the google machine, folks – in virtually every article addressing “boomerang kids”, there is some mention of a contract or agreement advised, or at the very least, a frank conversation on the front end about everyone’s goals and expectations (see here, here, and here). So our agreement includes:

• Monthly Rent – not even a meaningful sliver of market value, per se, but enough that I feel some sense of tenancy (I can put a nail in the wall without quivering, “daaaaddyyy?” but I still can’t, like, PAINT without asking); and that they don’t feel taken advantage of. This “rent” also includes utilities, “your stupid mutt is back and crapping in our yard” penance, and copious paper product supplies from Costco (and also sometimes ahi tuna and/or massive boxes of hippie crackers about which my landlords have changed their fickle, faux-paleo, palate-minds). I’m weird about light bulbs though, so I pay for those. (Again, Father GOPlant-a-tree likes the swirly fluorescent ones. They give off freaky light for pictures and make my head hurt. I put my boots on for this carbon footprint.)
• Noise and Visiting Hours – If I’m going to be having people over and their cars might block anyone in, and/or it’s going to be loud after 11pm, I’ve got to give them eesh, I have to check, either 24 or 48 hours notice, when possible. Embarrassingly enough, more frequently, they also have to do the same for me.
• Basic human “ballpark ETA so I can know when to worry that you’re dead in a ditch” information: Again, goes both ways – I don’t have a curfew by any stretch, but as I would anyone else I live with for their sanity and my safety, I try to give them a ballpark idea of when – or if -  I’ll be back if it’s going to be a particularly late night. Or if it wasn’t, and evolves in to one. I sincerely ask the same of them, since if I’m expecting them at 11 and it’s 12:30 and they’re still not home, I’m pretty much convinced they’re both in an ER and/or morgue somewhere and begin texting frenetically, until Early-Morning Eyebags McGee comes plodding in behind a tetteringly skippy Giddy McSparklepants Babysurpriseface, one kindly-but-groggily wishing me goodnight as he-or-she plodshuffles off to bed; and the other regaling me with stories of his-or-her evening as if it’s the middle of the afternoon – stories that I will most surely hear, in their entirety with nearly identical inflection, again the next day. I’ll leave you to assign roles here. (And for the record, kidding aside, I adore that my parents have great friends, and actual lives that still include unchaperoned nocturnal socialization; I also adore that these particularly late nights and ahem, relaxed days that follow are not so frequent that I suspect mid-life crises for either. I’m pretty sure they feel similarly re: my quarterly-if-that channeling of Ke$ha).
• “NAKED!” and other things you don’t want to scream at your Dad – To avoid either of us walking in on situations we’d rather not, whether that be scrambling eggs in ones’ underwear (I’m not sure what I want to wear yet, OK?) or interrupting naps, all of us have to make a due-diligence effort to contact the other floor before ascending/descending – usually via text – unless of course it’s an emergency (I need help, so I go upstairs; they hear things indicating I need help but I haven’t contacted them, they can come down and check. Usually I’ve just injured myself in a way that has angered or startled me more than actually caused pain, and therefore reacted appropriately, aka screaming epithets). This took some getting used to for both of us, but Dad learned his lesson the hard way one time when he came be-bopping down the stairs to ask me a question just about the time I came be-bopping out of my room to grab the bra I left in the living room. Nobody was scarred for life, but it was a close call.
• Tenant’s Meals – I was flattered, but both parents insisted that I cook dinner for them twice a month, seriously-just-because-they-like-my-food. I then realized it was a pretty covert way to come spy and make sure I wasn’t hoarding puppies, or trash, and vacuuming ever, but everybody’s pretty confident in my general “gee whiz! She may still eat fruit snacks but by god she’s a grownup!”-ness in that department, so now it really actually is about the food. And it really does happen, health and travel schedules permitting, twice a month. Except that per a few revisions after a particularly foodietastic trip this summer (I miss you too, Whisknladle, be back soon!) the stakes are higher than stir-fries and roasted chickens, and they now pay me to do this, rather than it offsetting part of my tenancy. Still, the name stuck, and it works – as a recurring “event” on my google calendar. (See? the platform changes, but the familial scheduling concept remains). PS – This week’s iteration was particularly easy AND delicious, and will be headed to a browser screen near you later this weekend.

See? It isn’t just about a long list of what I can and can’t do because mommy-and-daddy-say-so-and-it’s-their-house-and-as-long-as-I’m-under-their-roof… it’s also about what they can and can’t do because yes-I’m-under-your-roof-but-for-the-love-of-cheese-I’m-not-16. At least in my case, it wasn’t – and isn’t – about shaming me into getting off my ass and supporting myself already for pete’s sake!, or the old, “making it comfortable but not *too* comfortable lest I stay for posterity” bit – seeing as how I insisted on riding the bus to the first day of kindergarten because duh, that’s the whole point of big kid school; just from a basic, innate, ego-and-independence standpoint, they knew they didn’t have to worry much about that one. Rather, it’s about recognizing that times ain’t what they used to be, and it’s kind of silly (and, cue Republican GreenPeace Dad, “a waste of resources, even if the finances worked out for you”) to be heating, cooling, lighting and soundtracking an entirely separate residence just in the name of proving my independence (to whom, by the way?) according to a certain schema of social norms.

So am I a relatively ambitious twenty-six year-old living with her parents? Yes. Is this what I imagined my life would look like when I was eight, or twelve, or eighteen (or twenty-four…)? Hardly. But am I miserable? No. Moreover, am I apologetic or ashamed? Also, NO. It’s not my natural response, unfortunately, but all in all, I’ve come around pretty heartily to a “bloom where you’re planted” sort of paradigm, both literally (i.e., Mapdot, NC would not be my soil of choice otherwise) and figuratively – no matter what the situation, you can always control, at the very least, your reaction to it. And oddly enough? Leaning in to the fact that this is likely not a super-temporary-just-until-I-totally-get-better-again-because-I’ll-totally-get-better-again-and-then-I’ll-rule-the-world-for-a-living-and-plan-events-and-decorate-houses-on-weekends-no-I-haven’t-had-much-caffiene-why-do-you-ask?! situation, and putting down a few roots – decorating the space with a touch more permanence, for example, or actually planning and inviting people over – has given me a confidence, peace, and positivity I never had when I was walking around in a metaphorical “Ask Me To Explain How I’m Not A Loser Living With My Parents” sandwich board.

All that said, however, I feel the need to own a few caveats here. I know there are a handful of things that are relatively unique about my situation, that make it both literally and psychically easier on everyone involved.

First, and most obviously, the health stuff. Current economy be damned, I’m still pretty confident that I would at least have the option, financially and otherwise, of living elsewhere (even if that meant roommates) if it weren’t for *my particular disease pathology*. I say that not to make excuses, and I say it that way to clarify that CF does not necessarily look like this for everyone, even for folks technically “sicker” than I am. For me, the disease symptoms themselves are not what keep me from pursuing a traditional career path; I had many days at the law firm where I was discretely spitting blood into tissues while organizing case binders, or “running out for coffee” so I could run out to a much more public restroom. For me, and many bazillion other adults with CF, that part is so normal that it’s easy to forget it’s not.

The hindrance in my case is that instead of a slow plod of progression, I tend to get REALLY sick, REALLY quickly, but then rebound (knock on wood) to my original pre-setback baseline. What that means, though, is for a few weeks, I’m THE BEST EMPLOYEE EVER, 110% ALL DAY EVERY DAY!…until I have to randomly call in sick after seeming mostly fine a few days ago, and oh by the way? I’m headed in-house, so I’ll be MIA for at least 3 weeks. Catch you on the flip side, and send me anything I can help with between naps, procedures, force-feeds and treatments? So actual character aside, I’m just not particularly reliable in jobs where my physical presence matters, and increasingly, in those with hard-and-fast deadlines, period (even with a laptop and good wi-fi, there’s only so much work a girl can do in the hospital if you’re on meds that mess with your thinky parts, or that render you so drowsy you have to be woken up mid-bite and reminded to, you know, chew.) So yes, while I don’t think my parents would be passive-aggressive haters otherwise, I think the role my illness has played in shaping my adolescence/early twenties does contribute to the fact that there’s not more of the underlying “what are you doing with your life?! Where did I go wrong?!” tension that I hear bubbles up for other, healthier boomerangs. Also, even with the CF stuff, I beat myself up enough that if I was in this boat healthy, I think they’d be more concerned about coaxing me out of the corner I’d been rocking in, singing “soft kitty, warm kitty” for 96 straight hours, than lambasting me for my failures as a human being.

Furthermore, as I learned the just-hard-enough way in grad school, it’s really not particularly safe for me to live straight up, 100% alone. Thankfully, I had amazing friends who were neither scared nor bothered when called at midnight (they were up, at least, we all were) … but to um, maybe, do you mind swinging by and dropping me off at the ER? (No, stupid, I’m not dropping you off at the ER, I’ll just bring my laptop and books and finish the papers I have due tomorrow while I wait with you. …um, Jess, I love you, but since they gave you that medicine you haven’t stopped talking in 97 minutes and this paper is due in 38 more of them. What was that thing your mom said? sleepy ears or something?) However, a few calls too close then, and an episode once I’d been back home a while that, had I NOT had anyone around, would have likely had a very different and very ugly ending, has led me to the conclusion that so long as relationships and resources allow it (they don’t for everyone in my position, I know), it really is best I live with/(ish) other people. And because I’m an only child not used to sharing stuff, and because I’m a prideful person who would feel like I needed to pay a roommate some sort of cripple-sitting fee for that aspect of co-habiting to keep from feeling gross and indebted, but my parents CHOSE to have me! and KEEP me! and therefore I don’t feel (as) gross about it, it just works out that they’re the ones holding that particular short straw until someone else decides my delicious fare, penchant for home décor and endless witty banter outweigh my perpetual grossness, fear of frogs and penchant for clogging up the DVR with trashy teevee, and put a ring (and health insurance) on it.

Then there’s the other stuff that just makes it easier. Namely, that I have no siblings; I actually like and get along with the middle-aged humans who happen to be my parents; and thatI don’t have a bedroom, I have a bunkerpartment. I thinks it’s pretty clear already that I’ve got a fairly communicative, fun, mutually-respectful relationship with both of my parents. I know not everybody has that, and I know that not everybody can have that, even if all parties involved want it to be so. So I’ve got nothing, there, except a big fat cosmic THANKS.

But seriously? The no-siblings thing is HUGE. I don’t have little brothers and sisters in high school, wondering why IIIIII get to stay out as late as I want (because I’m a shamed twenty-something for whom a life without curfew is one of the only traits substantively distinguishing me from you, so shut up and do your homework) or for whom I have to watch my language or set a good example – when I stub my toe on the doorframe and scream MOTHERF—ER (the missing letters are “r, a, and m” for those of you playing hangman. Ohhh, those framers…) I get little more than a “Jess? You OK?” down the stairs. I hear this is not the case if you have an eleven-year-old housemate. I also don’t have toys, and games, and anybody else’s childish crap lying around and generally rubbing it in my face that I’m still living with my nuclear familial unit instead of a fancy, urbane, downtown apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and exposed brick walls and/or industrial stainless appliances; or sharing and renovating a precious mid-century craftsman bungalow with 3 of my bestest DIY girlfriends. (Yes, I watch too much TV read too much internet; this has already been established).

I also don’t have OLDER (or oh dear god, younger) siblings out of the house and looking down their “I got a degree that would actually get me a job, you ‘passion-chasing’ asshat” noses at me, again, like horror stories I’ve heard from others. And, I don’t have to split my parents’ allocated “failed adult child fund” resources and emotional energy with anybody else, either.

But most importantly, my actual living space situation is pretty unusual, in the grandest of ways. First of all, my parents don’t live in the house I grew up in, and haven’t been since my freshman year of college, so even when I was “just” in a bedroom (Boomerang 1.0 and 2.0, respectively), it wasn’t like I had memories of getting ready for prom in that bathroom, or doing homework at that desk. I think that helped a lot. But when they built this house, they pretty much planned on it being the last, ever, and so they built a basement with the idea that either of their parents (or me, I now know, but they didn’t want to pee on my I CAN DO ANYTHING! BEAT THE ODDS! Rainbow back then) could move in if need be and still afford my parents their privacy and sanity, as well as the tenant-de-decade.

So that’s where I live. Not in a bedroom, but in a 2-bedroom, 2-bathroom, full-kitchen, living room with fireplace, patio with carport walkout basement apartment. Due to my mom’s distaste for the phrase “lives in the basement”, and the fact that it’s situated so deep in the earth (sideways, I mean) that I’m on a self-imposed challenge to go all winter using only the fireplace and without turning on the heat, rendering a rather “bunker”-like quality, my not-so little space has taken on the affectionate title of the “Bunkerpartment”.

So when I’m squirrelly about saying “I live with my parents”, it’s not out of shame, it’s more out of respect for my boomerang compatriots dealing with disappointed parents, bratty siblings, and My Little Pony wallpaper. But I’m also trying to convey that when I invite you over for dinner, or game night, or whatever, mad respect, compatriots – it’s really not the same AT ALL as inviting you over if I DID live obliged to a chore wheel on the fridge, in a twin bed down the hall from my parents. In fact, you probably won’t even meet them until and unless I want you to. We share an address, a hot water heater, and a Costco membership – and not much else. So seriously, come on over.

Unless it’s Tenant’s Meal night. Then my dad might cut you. Or at least make you chip in on the bill.