Smoke and Leftovers

So the 'rents came and went, and left a bunch of stuff. Well, that's mostly a good thing, because they came to bring me new seating arrangements, plants, and various sundries I had forgotten. We got my futon into proper respectable futon position (instead of saggily leaning against a wall) and we hung my curtains. Now my living room is bathed in a soft parchmenty glow instead of a renter's white.

And since Mom had jokingly said she expected a gourmet meal next time she came, I went all out. Four courses, matched wine, the whole shebang. I pushed my beginners' luck with all new recipes, and the final results were fantastically tasty.

The process, however, was not without peril. Since I had chosen a broiled salmon pesto (recipe here) for the main dish, I knew the inevitable would occur--the smoke alarm.

And let me tell you, this smoke alarm isn't your basic, beep beep, hey, it's kinda hazy in here. I live in a handicapped apartment, so this alarm is the equivalent of a bipolar mother of six toddlers going through a divorce. Sensitive just doesn't describe it. I could light a match and the thing would go off. And you can't just take the batteries out--it's hardwired into the building. Figures. Dad got the job of waving a towel at the thing, and Mom helped by fussing over the dishes.

But dinner was had, dishes were done, and parents left. Now I'm feeling really alone, which is compounded by the daily call to the boyfriend. It's much tougher than I thought, being so far away yet still in the same country.

But that's not what you came here to read about. I'll keep my self-psychiatrizing off this blog.