Home For the Holiday SZN.

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Cue Mariah Carey 'cause it's ABOUT THAT TIME. 

I'm all about some holidays. Lemme tell ya'll I'm about to pay $1.29 to actually buy a ringtone (Apple is trippin' lately) so that the whole world will know my excitement for this part of the year. Thank you DJ Suede - check out my new Christmas anthem here.

Anyway, this holiday season I'll be at the house for a little more than the day after Christmas. What do I mean? 

I've moved back home.

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I know, I know. What the John Brown was I thinking. Everybody loves their mama, but at this age they do it from afar.

Why is it so difficult for us to humble ourselves and move back home - whether it be for emotional support, financial support, etc.? I don't know if it's a black culture thing, an age stigma thing, or a I'm-just-too-stubborn thing, but it made making this decision difficult as mess. Personally, I felt like I was going to be judged. Even though I know I have financial goals and I know what I'm working towards, I still felt like my dreams and aspirations were not enough to justify me living at my mom's. 

Not to mention, this is what I didn't want to deal with:

- "nyema, can you..."

- 87 questions after I get home from work

- being forced to clean when i don't feel like it

- "are you drinking wine? it's a tuesday." 

All the ways to make me catch an attitude are to do any of the things above.

Like a few weeks ago I was moving my stuff in. Most of it was already done but I was doing all the fifty thousand shoeboxes and the clothes on the hangers. Normal stuff. 

So I open the garage at my parents (mind you, I've already carried all this mess down three flights of stairs at the old apartment while artfully dodging killer spiders and the lanky, ugly man trying to talk to me first floor.) and I open the door to the car and half of it falls out.

annoyed.

So I hoist all the clothes over my arm and the shoe boxes under my other arm and start making my way through the garage to the door that leads to the house when my Dad opens the door. I'm like OK, cool. Help is on the way. 

But nah. 

He goes, "Why is the garage door open? You're letting bugs in." THEN MY MANS TURNED AROUND AND CLOSED THE DOOR.

 

When I tell ya'll it took everything in me not to throw these size 6.5 heels through his windshield while smacking him with all these hangers like a boomerang. Jesus was with him that day.

Then do you know what he had the nerve to ask me when I got inside?

"why do you have an attitude?"

Dead. Deceased. Done. 

So that's where I'm at right now. Saving to either #1 go back to school, #2 travel, #3 buy a townhouse, or #4 swim in a pool full of money, whichever shows up first. At first I was super nervous about being judged for going back home, but I'm at the point where I really don't care what people have to say. We spend way to much time worried about somebody else's life anyway.