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.

Gradually, things have been occurring to me. Little things about how it will be when I have a place of my own.

Things like a refrigerator filled with only the foods that I like. A spice cupboard that has taco seasoning and garlic powder and whole peppercorns and cumin, but no ancho chile powder or anise or carroway seeds.

Dishes and glasses and silverware that are purely a reflection of what I like, rather than a compromise with someone else’s tastes, or a projection of the perfect home, or hand-me-downs that I’ve never liked. Pots and pans that I actually use. Placemats that I love to look at. Furniture that’s comfortable and exactly what I want.

I know a lot of these things will depend on finances, having enough money to upgrade the things I’ll already have to things that I love, but that’ll come with time. I’ll be in complete control of money going in and out, and that’s a wonderful feeling.

Oh, and the colors. I can have colors. Any colors I want. Every color. Red, blue, green, yellow. Black and white. And it doesn’t matter if anyone else likes it or not. It just has to make me happy, make me like being at home.

I can have a knife set that looks like a person being stabbed.

I can have coat hooks that look like darts.

I can have a beaded “Cram It” curtain.

I can have a giant beanbag instead of a couch.

If you’ve lived on your own, set up your own home just to suit your own needs, or even set up a home as the dominant person in a relationship, making the decisions and having nearly everything arranged to your specifications, you can’t comprehend this feeling.

It’s like I never knew that the world could be this open, this full of possibilities. And that’s just in decorating an apartment. I can’t wait for other choices to open up to me as well.

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.

It’s not that I’m against safe edges (although I do think that people lacking the mental fortitude and foresight to grip a sharp metal disc anywhere but the sharp edge deserve what they get). My complaints with this nasty little device are threefold:

1. Eliminating the sharp edge on the lid means the sharp edge is merely relocated to the can itself. You’re cutting metal, folks. There’s gonna be a sharp edge somewhere.

2. The contraption is nigh impossible to use. I’m no Mensa member, but come on. It has no mechanics for gripping the can or the lid, and I don’t find it efficient to have to make five circuits to get one clean cut. At that point, I may as well be chewing through the can.

3. Since the lid is cut around the outer edge of the can, it becomes too big to fit inside for purposes of tidy disposal or draining liquid off tuna. Try it sometime, and see how much fun it is to be carefully wedging half of the lid into the can, pressing it against the tuna as well as can be done in such a situation, only to get drenched by tuna water shooting out the top side.

So I’ll leave this particular technological advancement to the people who can’t operate the good old fashioned can kind of opener. Then they can feel smart about not getting cut up, and I can feel smart about not smelling like tuna.

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.

So here I am, thinking about all the things that are knotted up in my stomach and my mind, trying to figure out a way to sort them out and give them some sort of direction.

I’m just going to have to whine about everything for a while, to get it off my chest. Then maybe I’ll be able to go back and talk about solutions and plans and all that optimistic crap.

First of all, it doesn’t seem like my house will ever sell. The last house had four offers the first weekend, some even over our list price. Not this time. It’s been on the market for three weeks with nary a nibble. It looks great, and the price is reasonable for the neighborhood and all that. I guess it just takes time. But the longer it takes to sell, the longer I have to contribute to paying the mortgage, and the longer I have to keep living with my mom, because I can’t afford an apartment on top of what I’m already paying for a home I don’t even live in.

The worst part is that my paycheck is so crappy that I only have left about $400 a month to spend on food, gifts, cat supplies, kickboxing dues, cell phone bills, gas, car maintenance, and actually buying anything for myself. And saving money is out of the question. As is slowly buying things I’ll need when I move into an apartment.

So I’m applying for jobs like crazy, but nobody seems to want to hire me. A couple months back when I decided that my current job was not for me, I got a few interviews, but then I was promised a job here that’s apparently not going to exist, and now the job market has forsaken me.

And I don’t even want to talk about my current job. There’s just too much that annoys and angers me here.

Back to a previous topic, there’s nothing horribly wrong with living with my mom. We get along fine, and I get some free food out of the deal. I just need to live on my own. I never have, in my entire life, and it’s time. When I have a bad day, I want the luxury of buying a bag of Oreos and sobbing in front of the TV. Or take a long hot bath with a book. I need to be able to come and go as I please, not checking in with anyone.

Not that I want to do anything particularly shady, but I just need to not worry about worrying anyone by not coming home at a particular time. I don’t want to always explain where I was. Maybe I just want to drive around, or sit in my car in a parking lot and read, or lurk at the library or bookstore for hours. I need that kind of freedom to just do whatever I want to do.

So it’s nothing against my mom or Ed. They’ve been more wonderful than I could have imagined, letting me live with them so long and even letting me bring my cat. But I need a change, and that can’t happen until the house sells. Having an income of $400 a month, when I have a master’s degree and two bachelor’s degrees, is decidedly uncool.

There are all kinds of other things contributing to the feeling of an elephant sitting on my chest, but I’ve probably whined enough for one day. I’ll get back to the getting-in-shape, extra-long-commute, behind-on-charity-auction-helping, stifled-creativity, frustrated-writer-and-crafter, stalled-business-owner, can’t-seem-to-get-enough-sleep issues another time.

And if you actually read this all the way to this point, thank you. I’ll post something positive one of these days, I promise!