The hunt has begun

I love my family.

Today, we fought about Michael Vick (who should not be allowed to play professional sports), the Eagles, and the Giants (which Manning is the hot one – Eli, obviously). We ate chicken (which I made to Mike’s dismay yet which later became moderate approval. “It wasn’t so bad,” he said. “I thought it was going to kill me.”), Mike made a Starbucks run (sweetly bringing back a latte for Mom and I), and things were generally copacetic.

We are currently in the middle of a heated (yet hilarious) non-argument about our future housing.

The situation is thus:

It all comes back to that damned cat. Seriously, single mothers have it rough.

I’m desperate for my own place.
Having lived alone, having loved that apartment in Chicago so intensely, and having tasted the sweet freedom of “my apartment,” I’m loathe to linger here longer than I must.
However, the financial situation remains dire to say the least.
Complicating the whole situation is Cat/Carlos, who remains in the capable hands of my friend Jacob, yet who cannot live there forever.

My deadline is February 1.
The other day I found a too-good-to-be-true apartment downtown and emailed the guy out of curiosity only to find out that it was indeed too-good-to-be-true. Credit check prior to viewing? Ha, I think not, internet scam man.

I’m itching. I think it’s the cat. (That was a cute little allergy pun just for Mom.)
I love that Jacob loves Cat, but he’s mine, and I want him. I’m jealous that Jacob gets to live with him and I seriously think that five months of cat-care is long enough. Jacob wants his life back and I want my cat.

Mom is pestering us with questions about how we’ll sort out things like food and blah, blah, blah, and Mike is silent. We’ve lived together for years, we’ll sort it out.
He only pipes up whenever I say I wouldn’t mind sharing a bathroom with him. He complains of girly products and clothes, I complain equally of sweaty gym socks and eau-de-man.

And thus nothing is settled and as usual, I’m the only one remotely agitated (not seriously, but a smidgeon). Mom’s smirking that very pleased smirk while she crochets and Mike might be comatose on the couch.

And thus, the family dynamic remains strong: the evil matriarch, the quiet, reserved son, and the headstrong, stubborn, resilient (and might I add stunning) daughter.

It (which Mom has termed “our fireside chats”) goes a little something like this:

“On some issues, I stand as evil mother and it doesn’t bother me a bit. I notice that no one on the couch is agreeing with you…”

The couch stirs. “I’m staying out of it.”

“See, that means he agrees with me.”

“Mike, do you agree with her?”

“No. I don’t agree with anyone.”

It’s never boring here, but I have the sneaking suspicion that none of us would have it any other way.

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