LOVE AND LIZARD SHIT

When I left for university, my parents must have thought they'd won the lottery. For them, my absence meant more space; an extra room; fewer meals to prepare; and possibly even reckless sex on the kitchen counter. (Yeah. Right.)

Now, the point of this post is not the real or imagined shenanigans of my parents. The point is absence and oversight. Because I was no longer claiming squatter's rights at the homestead, my mother felt herself suddenly empowered to systematically remove my chattels and declare my former pad to be her long sought after 'sewing room'. In other words, my stuff was either tossed into the bin and removed at curb-side by the garbage man, or distributed amongst the neighbourhood riff-raff. My stuff. The collections I'd spent a childhood and adolescence putting together. Needless to say, words were exchanged that first Christmas home. (And though I am not one to hold a grudge much past a fourth decade, she has been reminded of this traitorous betrayal every Mother's Day since... albeit with jolly good slaps on the back and thin-lipped grins.)

Absence and oversight. Which brings us to Love and Lizard shit. Man, I feel your pain.