No. 136 "Living At Home."

A few weeks ago, my friend Bre inspired me to write a blog about living at home after she went on what could only be described as the funniest fucking rant my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear. So I will give credit where credit is due.

Many recent (and not-so-recent) college grads have had the misfortune of moving back in with their parents after completing their degree. Blame it on the shitty economy, the growing number of college educated young people, or the government; it's hard to find a career in your field nowadays. Personally, I blame it on the economy. I also use the economy as an excuse for just about everything else in my life. I get pulled over for speeding: economy. I forget to visit my grandparents: economy. I still act like a 19-year-old: economy. It's a catch-all excuse that I will exercise until that well has run dry.

Anyway, I thought it would be appropriate to write a post about something that many people my age (myself included) are currently having to undergo: living at home. Moving back in with the parents after being away at college for several years is a bit acculturating. Instead of calling your folks once a week to tell them that you are still alive, constant contact is unavoidable. You may no longer live by "your rules" and thus are reverted back to your teenage years instead of making the customary transition to mature adult. Per usual, I have highlighted a couple themes that make living at home after college a bit of a drag.

Waking Up:
Not having a 9-5 job means that many college grads will procure jobs in the restaurant or hospitality industry. Which equals not having to wake up until noon some days. As nice as it is to be able to sleep in, this is rendered impossible due to restless mothers. A peaceful slumber is almost always halted by our lovely birth givers. I'm not exactly sure if my mom is intentionally trying to be loud, but every morning I am awoken to banging pots and pans, even if she isn't cooking. Sometimes she changes it up and vacuums while mowing the lawn synchronously to create a cataclysm of noise to assure I can never go back to sleep. If somehow I am able to fend off her gallant efforts to wake me, I am treated to a SWAT team-esque door kick down. I do not remember my mom taking kickboxing lessons, but eventually my door became so scared of her dropkick wrath that it would unhinge itself and fall down on it's own intimidation after a few weeks.

Pots and pans make great instruments of torture.

Job Hunting:
Our doting mothers' hearts are in the right place, but they have not entirely accepted the internet as a vital resource in finding a career. Instead, many of us are treated to archaic advice that may have worked in the 1950's, but now is best labeled under: No, mom. That will not work. The "best" advice I received from my mom was to "just drive down to the corporate office and ask for the CEO. Tell him that you learn fast and will try your darnedest and I'm sure you will get the job." If I were to take her advice and actually go down to a business I was attempting to acquire a job at, it would not play out the way she saw it in her disconnected head. I would spend thirty minutes driving in traffic, demand to speak to the CEO of said Fortune 500 company, be told that he lives in New York, then hand my resume to the receptionist. In that two hour span I could have emailed my resume and cover letter to the hiring department and spent the next hour and fifty five minutes watching a Sandra Bullock rom-com UFC fights. Maybe my mom is just trying to be helpful, but "pounding the pavement" is ineffective in the 21st century; although it will help me land a job in the fast food industry; which would be a great way to use my bachelor's degree.

Cleaning:
Somehow, we all revert back to our formative years as soon as we move back home. It is customary to be yelled at for leaving a plate in the sink; a problem that did not exist in college as you would be looked at as a raging dickhead if you told your roommate to clean up anything that did not involve their bodily fluids from the previous evening. I find it interesting how my mom will exaggerate messes that I had left. A single cup in the sink = "the entire kitchen is a disaster." Not making my bed = "your room is a pig pen." And so on. I half-expect to be grounded; which would work if I didn't have the ability to kick my dad's ass.

I see no problem here.

Bringing Over A Girl/Guy:
This task is impossible unless you are an unabashed individual who can casually deal with repressed embarrassment from said party and an awkward breakfast wherein your mom not-so-slyly hints at whether or not you used contraception and then requests your presence at the next Sunday mass service. As far as self-administered sexual activities go, all moms have caught onto the "door closed means open very, very slowly and ask if we're 'changing'." Everyone's sex life has been dramatically truncated due to their "home field" being occupied by their wellspring. It makes you want to finance a vacation for your parents so you can get a handy from a fat chick without stainless steel cookware hindering your che.

Meals:
Although your diet has been ameliorated from your college days filled with microwavable concoctions and 3 AM burritos, the selection of your parents' newly healthy-option fridge is less than appealing. Soy milk, sugar-free ice cream and Boca burgers are a bit of a culture shock for most recent college grads. When one tries to prepare a midnight snack, it's hard to accommodate your needs for a PB&J out of cardboard gluten-free flatbread, organic almond butter and free-range jelly. An intermediate omnibus of food and drink would make the step to healthy living a bit more reasonable and taste less like bark. And the worst part: your dad now drinks Bud Select 55, so even his beer selection has been pussified.

Why drink beer when you can drink disgusting water that doesn't get you drunk?

Late Night Activities:
Every twentysomething has moved past the idea of inviting friends over for a social gathering and firmly planted their flag into the bar scene as the destination of choice. But, for some reason unbeknownst to me, mothers across America will still ask why "you don't have some friends over instead of going to bars all the time." Although this is probably a precursor for her not wanting you to drive around the city drunk, it is still annoying. They must still see us as 15-year old kids and expect a night with friends to resemble a couple games of Uno over Sunny D instead of a reenactment of The Hangover. I would have no problem throwing a party with a bunch of my friends, but it's not my house, or as Snoop Dogg would call it: Hizzouse. I would rather not replace your lladro collection that will certainly be destroyed by an impromptu whiskey-induced wrestling match. Also, I am fairly certain you and dad are not die-hard fans of dub step blaring until 5 am. We're really just looking out for you, moms.

Those are just a few experiences every recent diploma wielding individual will be forced to endure as they use their parent's home as a launching pad into their own fateful ascension descent to adulthood. Some other issues may arise when living in the same domicile as your forebearers. This may include but is not limited to:
-DVR recording priority
-Helping set-up and break-down bunko night events
-Having your arm broken for attempting to adjust the air conditioning
-Cleaning up dog poop
-Inability to take the lord's name in vain
-Feigning interest in your dad's newly acquired mid-life crisis hobbies
-Using a land line phone
-Sleeping on a futon when your aunt is in town
-Being made fun of by your successful friends