As much as I love my mom and am inexpressibly thankful for how she and Ed have let me live in their house and be a total mooch for many months now, I am SO looking forward to having my house sell, and being able to spend that mortgage money on rent for a place of my own.

I’ve never lived alone for more than a week. That’s a pretty sad fact for a so-called grown up, but it’s true. I’ve never had a place truly mine, and only mine. No parents, no roommates, no husbands or anyone of any kind. Just me. Just mine.

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Generally, I’m a fan of progress. Technological advancements are usually good, because they’re usually improvements, a way to make life easier, or at least less annoying. Text messaging allows me to communicate long-distance without sharing my conversation with everyone else in the grocery line. Electric toothbrushes make my dentist happy. Double-sided tape saves us from making endless tape loops to put a poster on the wall.

But there’s one so-called advancement that I protest. It has caused me nothing but frustration, heartache, and stinky hands. It is the “safe edge” can opener. I like to call it the can’t opener.

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I’m grumpy and restless and fairly certain I’m encountering PMS-land. I’ve been told I should write stuff down, get out everything that’s frustrating me, irritating me, worrying me, annoying me, angering me, and so on. But it seems as though all of my posts here have been negative. At least an unhealthy percentage of them. When I’m in a good mood, there are other things I’d rather do besides sit here and write. But when my mood goes south, all that’s left to do is whine about it.

But maybe I should try to put a more positive, hopeful spin on things. Write about what I want to be able to do, write about what I’d like to get sorted out and cleared up. That’s probably a better idea than just listing my complaints. It has an illusion of forward motion, anyway.

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