I received a piece of mail addressed to “The Walenta Household.” This came to my apartment, where I live alone, where I have been living alone since I moved in almost a year and a half ago. Mindy Montford and her campaign, who sent this postcard, may not know this. She’s running for some kind of political office in Austin. I don’t know what office, but I’ll probably vote for her based on this: she and her campaign regard me as a household. (You can see how sophisticated is my selection process for candidates for public office.)
I never thought of myself as a household before. Maybe it’s because I haven’t done my taxes yet and haven’t been asked to make a decision like that. Or maybe it’s because I’m still a student, essentially being supported by my mother, even though she lives in another house in a different town. Maybe I never thought a household could be just one person. The word household conjures up an image of a house overrun with kids, a couple of overworked parents, living in a free-standing structure that has a yard. That’s not my life. My household is an apartment, and it's very quiet. I go to sleep when I want, wake up when I want, and eat when I want. I can take my time getting ready in the morning because I don’t have to share my bathroom with anybody. I listen to music of my own choosing, and no one says anything about it. (Except, sometimes, my upstairs neighbor: “What WAS that this morning? Tribal drumming?!” I don’t listen to tribal drumming, but I do have a surprisingly powerful bass speaker, and as my friend Chris says, “Every song has bass when you’ve got this much power!”)
“The Walenta Household.” As head of this household, I’m going to decree the mandatory presence of fresh flowers every week, multiple lamps for indirect lighting, and ice cream for dinner, monthly at minimum. No phone calls after 10 PM unless it’s an emergency (or previously negotiated). Done.
I’m going to like it here.
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