Upstairs, Downstairs

I live my life in a constant state of shuffling.  I am always moving my things, my laptop, my crochet stuff (which I STILL HAVEN'T STARTED), from room to room and bag to bag.  If my mother's cat is inside and it is past ten o'clock at night, I will be enjoying the rest of my evening in the garage.  With my three dogs.  And my cat.  And my fiance, with our dinner.  I just got of work from tending bar.  I can think of nothing more comfortable than sitting in a Coleman fold-up chair, as if at a sporting event, sitting in a sweltering garage that smells like fried chicken.

Doesn't this just scream..."comfort?"

We don't go inside due to an "issue" between our cats, and of course, my late hours, and subsequent noise.  It is apparently "too stuffy" with their door closed, and my cat and her cat well, they need Jackson Galaxy BIG TIME.  They like things quiet, and to me, stuffy.  The garage is stuffy but at least I can drop something without waiting for the obligatory, "everything ooookay?" which really means, "WHAT DID YOU BREAK?!?!?!"

I guess I should explain more clearly: MY FIANCE AND I LIVE WITH MY PARENTS.  Yes, I know what you're thinking, but it was a fiduciary issue, that became a necessity.  I think today marks the day we are halfway to our savings goal, and THAT RULES.   

I do not like writing downstairs.  I feel like my mother thinks I am playing Solitaire or "just looking at your phone for the millionth time."  She is also constantly interrupting me, to perform a chore, or to point out I don't know how to cook.

So, she yells from downstairs to me, in my room, upstairs.

I may run up and down these sixty times a day, yet, I am still a chubby bunny.  How does that work?

Her: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?'

Me: "WRITING."

Her: "OH.  DON'T YOU WANT TO COME OUTSIDE AND EAT SOMETHING?"

Me: "NO, I HAVE SOME WORK TO FINISH UP, I WILL BE DOWN IN A BIT."

Fun facts my mom likes to forget after giving birth to me, and knowing me thirty-two years.  One, I hate the sun and two, I never eat before like...three in the afternoon.  My stomach is constantly wrought and I can't even eat without smoking pot, there, I said it.  

When I come down, she stares at me, makes a comment that pissed me off, so I went right back upstairs.  Thirty seconds later, I hear her yelling.

I love spending time with people who yell at me constantly.  Don't you?

Her: "WHERE ARE YOU?"

Me: "UPSTAIRS."

Her: "OH."  This translates too: "I must have pissed her off, but I don't really care."

Me: "I WILL BE DOWN IN A MINUTE."

So then I slip my sweatshirt on, as not to offend anyone with my "tattoos that are merely for attention", and prepare myself for the inevitable:  I am going to be vacuuming something, very soon.