Where Grown-Ups Live

My little sister Kelsea once called me a grown-up when I was in my mid-twenties. Instead of taking five-across-the-eye I explained to her, "No, I'm an adult. A grown-up is much different." On that note, we're moving finally! We've dubbed it The Grown-Ups Home. Mostly because it resembles a home insofar as it's a house (the two-family variety) and not a teeny apartment, there's a wee yard in front for the Wee, a free parking spot in back, and ... ! ... we're Painting The Walls. Which, if you've ever rented in New York means you're staying a while. I even scoped out the school district beforehand and Alina isn't even going to school for three more years. But does this make me a Grown-Up? A title I've besmirched, spat upon, and otherwise avoided all this time? And if I am, do I like it? Will I ever like it? Seth MacFarlane, you're my only outlet because deep down I know your shows are made just for me. And Botch and Doll until they move to Portland in June.

This will be my 7th move since 1999. Astoria, Astoria again, Boston, Manhattan, Williamsburg, Forest Hills, and now Forest Hills again. So I think I'm done for a bit. When we had that 4-story walkup in Brooklyn and Katrina was pregnant, I moved everything myself and with our car. One van load that had the box spring, mattress, and Ecko's (iguana) 5-foot plexi-condo was the only thing I had assistance with. But this time? Bah! We have such a long crossover in leases we could move one box a day and still accomplish it. Well, there's all that furniture I built while living at our current place.

Maybe I'll pay some young, strong adults to move my crap for me.