When we moved to our first house, in Roseville, the neighborhood was full of cookie-cutter houses, except for our own- the original farmhouse. The neighbors to our left were two beautiful women, who- until my mom brought it up again last week- I thought of as 'roommates.'
We lived next door to a lesbians. Lesbians. And my mom loved it, because she never had to worry about my dad, the handyman, when he was over their house fixing a sink or hanging a new light.
It's funny how the older we get, the more we think we're going to turn into our parents. I always dreaded that, but now I realize that I've been like them all along.
