Help me, I'm poor

I recently made the decision to move back in with my mom. I was tired of paying ever-increasing rent, and realized that I'm not 16 as previously thought but rather 26 which means I should probably seiv. Or is it sayv? Sav? Whatever, it's this concept where you like, take money and like, not spend it. You put it away somewhere (sock, bag, mattress, up to you man, I don't care) and you just...leave it. So, I decided to give that a try, because apparently, according to the world slash everyone's prophecies, there's also this thing called a Rainy Day, which is what everyone is saiveng (savying?) for, which looks something like this:



...with those who haven't saved (GOT IT) for this "rainy day" obviously playing the role of Sarah Connor in Terminator 2 (now do you get the photo reference??), though I won't post a picture of her melting skeleton.

So, with that said, I moved back in with my mom and sister, and was lucky enough to get my sister's old room.  This room has a wooden "V" on the door, because that's the first letter of her name. To avoid uncomfortable and confusing situations for my potential future visitors, I plan on converting that V into a charming and positive message: Velkommen, ja. So, welcome, one and all, to my new room!

Let me tell you how fun it is to stuff the contents of your entire one bedroom apartment into a pre-teen sized bedroom: it is very fun.  Sort of like Tetris, but you have to live on everything, and none of the carefully organized blocks ever go away. Why hello, Mister Toilet Brush, please make yourself comfortable between my pillow and armpit. (Alright, alright, I got rid of the toilet brush).

Another fabulous aspect of moving back home is that your mother assumes you have regressed to your childhood years and/or are handicapped in every way possible, and questions your every move.  Every time I go upstairs, regardless of whether she's making dinner or in the middle of a coma, everything is dropped and I am requested to explain where I am going.  I'm never going anywhere exciting: I'm going to sleep, I'm going to read, I'm going to take out my contacts. But, every time, she must know where I'm going - a sentence that implies a dissatisfaction with my sudden absence from her platform of ultimate control.  So, here's the fun part: I now invent new reasons why I would be leaving the living room to go upstairs.  Yesterday, I told her I was making hats out of skin.  This evening, I ran upstairs to aggressively touch old photographs.  Sometimes she laughs, sometimes she doesn't, so for now, I'm just going with it.

Seriously, though, if ever you're considering moving back home, yes, it's slightly painful...I basically feel like Kristen Wiig from Bridesmaids all the time. I mean I've always felt like her, but now it's like...for real, and complete with the part where she moves back home. Yikes.

 

It's slightly painful, but it's also nice to have people around who constantly worry about whether you packed a lunch or put on a scarf this morning, or call you if you're late coming back from work.  It's annoying, but I know one day when I'm rolling in riches and sleeping on a bed of lobsters, I'll miss the smell of my mom cooking something buttery downstairs, or the sound of their incessant laughter as they watch the same episode of Friends for the eighteenth time.  Living with your parents can be hella lame, but it can also be your one last chance to feel like you're really, truly home.  So that's what I'm doing - making a new home in my old home, one shelf at a time. And if it all means I have a couple more fives in the ol' savings account, well then you just can't go wrong.

Gotta go, mom's calling..