Who says you can't go home again?

Como estan, bitches?

After the most stressful two weeks of my entire life, I am back. You may recall DGF from a few weeks ago, where I was moving all my worldly possessions with my own two hands. On top of that, work was an ever loving bitch last week. I may have worked 55+ hours at my normally 35 hour per week job. Beakers are usually not that demanding, but last week was hell on earth. To make matters worse, I had a death in the family (wamp wamp, who brought Debbie Downer to the blog party?), which means yours truly had to trek back home for the services.

So, sad reason to be at home with the family. But I enjoyed my time at home considering the circumstances. However, about 2 days into my time at home, I realized something was amiss. Let me preface this by saying I’ve been living away from home for almost 6 years now (I’m including college in that tally), and during that time I like to think I’ve become a responsible member of society. (sometimes). Maybe I’m alone in this, but I find that when I’m in my family’s house, I turn into my 12-yr-old self. Let me elaborate:

1.) My mom. I make my mom do things for me that I am perfectly capable of doing for myself. Frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. My mother birthed me for the sole purpose of doing things for me. Isn’t that why all women have children? To love and care for them? So when I’m home, I let my mom do my laundry, make me delicious sandwiches, tie my shoes, and what have you. I feel as though I’m doing her a service by giving her something to do. Could I get up off the couch to make my own sandwich? Sure, but there’s a Deadliest Catch marathon on, and sammiches always taste better when they are made with love.

2.) Food. Being home is greater than being at my apartment because at home all of the cabinets are fully stocked with foodstuffs. However, being home is less than being at my apartment because I eat all of the delicious foodstuffs in the aforementioned apartments. Seriously, when I’m home I spend most of the time eating like I just escaped from fat camp. Living on my own, I’ve gotten used to eating approx one meal a day. (True story: the first week of freshman year, I got so overwhelmed in the dining hall that I left without getting anything and ate nothing but crackers and peanut butter for a week.) So being at home and eating three square meals a day is strange. Not to mention the never-ending snacks I consume in between meals. I’m not saying I was a fat little kid, but I’m also not NOT saying I was a fat little kid.

3.) Animals. They say that petting a cat adds years to your life. If that’s the case, I’m going to live to a ripe old age after this weekend. Living on my own, I don’t have pets because they require you to be responsible. And my binge drinking habits don’t really speak to my responsibility. But at home, I’ve always had several pets at a time. So when I’m not cramming my cramhole with foodstuffs, I’m playing with the dogs or chasing the cats or other pet-related activities I can’t do in my apartment. I don’t walk or feed the dogs though, because that’s work. And that’s what my mom is for. But I’m not opposed to rolling around on the floor like a child. I’m in the privacy of my own home, who is going to judge me?

4.) Manual labor. Much like how women have children to care for them and cater to their every whim, men have children to perform menial physical labor for them for free. I can get my mom to do my bidding no questions asked, but my dad, as soon as I get home, has at least three projects that he needs my help with. No sooner had I put my bags down from getting in Friday night than my dad informs me we bought a new screen house that needs to be put up and a new pool liner that needs to get put in. Here is where I diverge from my 12-yr-old theme, because as a 12-yr-old I was rotund and physically useless. Now that I’m a strapping young lad, I get the pleasure of doing these chores. Nothing says I love you like fighting over Tab A and Slot B.

5.) Sleep. Unlike some of you, when I moved out of my old room, my little brother moved right in. The room I grew up in is no longer. My little brother’s poorly-lit, weird-smelling pigsty replaced my poorly-lit pigsty (but my room didn’t smells like dead hamster and blue cheese, thank you very much). I have been relegated to the “guest room” in the basement, which consists of my little brother’s old bed and heaps of junk my mother cannot bring herself to throw out. I don’t mind the heaps, but I do mind having my feet hang over the end of the bed all night. I am not 5’5” anymore. Please plan accordingly. This past weekend was even worse, as my aunt was staying with us, so I had to spend the whole trip home sleeping on our various couches. On the plus side, they are longer than a twin bed. On the downside, I slept in the living room, and our three kittens go beserk around 4 in the morning. A fact I was made aware of once one of them jumped square onto my chest.

Please tell me I’m not alone in this phenomenon. Going home is like going through a time warp. Just being in that atmosphere is like going through puberty all over again. Much in the same way being on or near a college campus makes me binge drink.

Regardless, I do enjoy going home, aside from the 10 pounds I inevitably put on after each trip. But it’s great to be back in the city. And in my new apartment, which now I have to make look like I actually live here and not like someone is having a yard sale in my place. If you’ll excuse me, I have some Jonas Brothers posters that need tacking up.