A Bachelor's Built For 2
It could be said that certain doom smells a lot like burnt cookies. Alternately, almost-certain-doom smells a lot like gasoline. Or barring that, turpentine. Such smells do not tend to garner any sort of status on my "Good Things" list. Especially when such gasoline-enriched smells are coming from a basement where there is no gasoline supply of any sort.
Suffice to say, the next-door neighbours tend to treat their house garage like an actual mechanic's garage. They did some heavy engine work on a car of theirs a few days ago, and then just sealed shut the garage. Those of you who've taken WHMIS courses on proper ventilation of noxious and dangerous fumes are all cringing right now, I'm sure.
Since this place happens to be a duplex of sorts, we learned very quickly that their garage needed to air out. Two days of gasoline fumes building and building in their garage seeped into our basement. If none of what I'm writing makes sense, it's probably because I'm still a bit high on the fumes. At the very least, they were informed and have opened their garage door to let all the toxic odours escape into the wild.
I am, though, rather impressed that their garage didn't spontaneously combust. Anyone lighting a match near that place would have probably been killed by the flying, flaming lawnmower if the initial blast didn't do it first.
Neighbours like this worry me. I really don't care all that much if they decide to be reckless idiots and nearly blow themselves to bits. It's their perogative to at least try, if they feel so inclined. It's that whole
I-live-next-to-you-and-would-probably-be-blown-up-too part I'm not fond of. That part I do care about.
Happily, this won't be a worry in the near future.
Why? Well, I am soon to be joining the ranks of the few, the free, the rent-paying public. Yes indeed, an apartment has been found for Mel, myself and Shady the Shih-tzu to settle down in as the wedding comes and goes. It's not the grandest of places by any stretch. It's a far cry from luxury, and it's not near my place of work (though it is next to a major bus route).
But it's going to be ours.
It's probably been 2 years since I've been able to call any place I've stayed at a home. A house, certainly. Someone else's house, definitely. But for all that they've been, the good and the bad, there were not a home. More to the point, they were not
my home. Perhaps it's a territorial thing (though many of you will no doubt be happy to know I don't mark the doors or doorways of whatever room I happen to live in), but I like having something decisively all mine. When you live in someone else's place, it's hard to bring yourself to call it a home. It's nothing more than a domicile, a fixed location.
I may be there, but my heart is not.
Looking around the empty 1-bedroom apartment a few days ago, right after the lease and last month's deposit had been signed, brought with it an unexpected smile to my face. I stood there in an empty, tiled living room with white walls and large balcony windows, and realized this was where I was going to live. Not just myself, but my fiancee and my dog as well. This was where something I could call a family would begin. It was something I would be supporting. It was something I had fought for, in more ways than one.
It had lost the feel of just another building, of just another apartment. It had life. It had warmth. It had potential. It was someplace I suddenly knew I could call a home. More than that, it would be
our home.
If you happen across me on the street in the next few days, and ask my why I've got such a quiet, enigmatic smile on my face, I may tell you, "Because there's a home waiting for me when I leave here."
Today's Lesson: great things start with small beginnings. And, always air out your garage on a regular basis, just in case it suddenly decides to try and spontaneously combust on you.
posted by Phillip at 6:36 PM
