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For this summer, I decided to move home with my parents in
order to
squeeze out every last ounce of childhood semblance I have remaining
in my rapidly ending collegiate career.
At least this will be the semi-profound excuse I will tell girls I
meet in bars over the next three months. Most likely as my opening
line.
The fact of the matter is that I'm in poverty now, but want to have my
own place in the fall. The fall semester will be my last semester in
college--thus my one-way ticket to "not-under-my-roof-ville" this
summer. After the fall semester will come graduation for hundreds of
college students and maybe me. After that,
I imagine I'll plan some
zany road trip with my friends and Tom Green. Minus Tom Green. We'll
pack the car full of expensive, imported beer (lol) and decide to
throw caution to the wind and to "just drive, man." But then we'll
probably argue over who has
to just drive, man and ultimately stay
home and play around on facebook.
Anyway, the point of all this is to save money. I would stay in my
current apartment, but my landlord is a real dick and demands things
like money in exchange for shelter. This isn't good for me because, as
a journalist, I have taken a sort of inadvertent vow of poverty. The
cool thing about this is that it kinda makes me think of my calling in
life (hack writer) as almost admirable and religious in nature. I say
'almost' admirable because the average column I write disses babies.
Or dedicates four paragraphs to me washing pants. Plus it's a bad
religious metaphor because the average nun gets more action than I do.
Mostly because of her superior wardrobe.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't kind of excited about moving
home. My mom is part Italian and part, um, American, I guess. This
means she happily cooks anything
at any hour of the day and buys a lot
of gas. Contrast this to my current eating habits which revolve around
me saying "are you going to eat that?" to homeless people I think I
actually depress.
But this won't happen at home. Every time I look remotely sleepy,
even if it's 1 a.m., my mom will ask me if I'm OK and if I want an egg
sandwich or some rice and gravy. Or pheasant. And I return the favor
by showing her how to do technologically advanced things like checking
e-mail (aka "The Yahoo") and burning Clay Aiken CDs (aka "The Yahoo").
The same thing goes for my dad, who I consider to be one of the
funniest human beings alive. We have sort of an understanding centered
around me being able to live there as long as I don't touch the lawn
but bring my wide-screen TV from my apartment.
A
conversation with my dad:
Dad: So, you're moving home, huh?
Me: Yep! Are you excit--
Dad: Are you bringing the TV?
Another plus about moving home is I get to see my old room, which has
since been turned into my parents' IRS filing cabinet/Christmas tree
storage unit. My room is a testament to my former self and serves as
an undying reminder of how cool and popular I was in junior high and
high school. All of the subject matter of my posters, for example,
have content that remains, even in 2005, at the peak of popularity.
Like my Dr. Evil poster, for example. And my Bush poster.
The only thing crappy about my room is that it doesn't have a door.
It's kind of a loft and once you walk upstairs, you're basically
guaranteed to be in the middle of me doing something embarrassing. Or
naked. So essentially me naked.
For example, here is every conversation I had with my mother in my
room during my junior year of high school:
Mom: *walks into my room without
knocking on... nothing*
Me: Mom! I'm naked!
Mom: Do you want an egg sandwich?
This brings up another topic. The only thing I fear about moving back
in with my parents is the whole "cramping of style" issue. Because,
let's face it, I totally ruin my dad's game when I'm home. Plus I'm 22
now, so I'm supposed to be grown up. Once I see Dr. Evil, though, I
know I'll revert back to my high school mindset.
For example (and this is true), my mom and dad are taking a trip to
Las Vegas the week I'm supposed to move back. I am happy for them and
will be happy to have the place to myself, but I know that the
temptation will be astounding
for me to throw a party. And then my mom
can kiss goodbye to her Elvis statue. And to her dog, Hound Dog.
Wait.
©2005 Tim Landry
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