I need Smurfs.

I don't want to give into my own smugness with this post, but I suppose to expunge all that self indulgent nonsense from my writing I have to write in a self indulgent and smug way.

Its been nearly 4 weeks (with one of those weeks spent in a drunken haze back in the comfort of my old stomping grounds) since my exorcism from my parents grasps and some things have come to light in their absences. I suppose that part of the "coming of age" of the 21st century American male is taking on the medial tasks that the parents once took care of and facing them head on. As much as I like to believe I've had a firm grasp on responsibility certain things have come to light.

Paying for Laundry - Now I've been separating whites and darks since my early teens. Its never been the comical sitcomish situation of a lone red sock ruining everything or the shrinkage of my favorite sweater. Its a fairly simple operation. Put your clothes in the washing unit, add some detergent, set your cycle, and go sit on the couch till the buzzer a buzzes. Simple. Easy. No problem. I've apparently been taking the luxury of an at home washing machine for too much granted. See out here in the real world it cost a dollar fifty per wash... And its hardly adequate enough space for all my clever t-shirts, let alone my 3 pairs of pants. The expense comes to about $3-6 a week depending, which seems at first glance like change in the couch, but that small chunk of change is the difference between toast and Sketti-O's for dinner.

Waking Up - High school seems so far off at this point even though its hardly been the blink of an eye since I've been in the hallowed halls. Back then it was hardly a chore to awake before noon. For the most part it was necessary to get up at (shutter) 6:30 and jog down the hill, pop-tart in hand, hoping to catch that big, yellow bus. But somewhere between graduation and community college 6:30 in the morning became the hay hitting time with drunken, lazy eyes and for the most part it wasn't even my own hay I was hitting. My mother, being the wise sage she is, allowed me to keep this routine for the most part, attempting to quell this nasty habit here and there, but letting me learn from my mistakes (and hangovers). When she grew fed up and my routine became pathetic, she would rattle me from my daze after few hours of sleep until I found a niche of a 10 A.M. wake up time. Now, with out her supervision, and with no reason to awake before the ice cream man comes a calling, my sleep pattern is all awry.

Nutrition Pattern - I know from my corpulent physique that you wouldn't guess it, but I am somewhat of a health nut. Everything that passes through my teeth and gums and down, down, down the esophageal tube into my stomach is registered and separated into categories in my brain. For the most part I am very conscious about what I eat and how fast it will kill me. Don't get me wrong, I still slobber down a quarter-pounder with cheese in record timing, but I usually remind myself afterwards that its gonna hurt in a few years. There was always the comforting blanket of mom's pot roast or lasagna every so often that never registered as a harmful meal. It was good, old fashioned, at home cookin' and there ain't nuttin wrong with that. Despite my peaked interest in the culinary arts there is a paranoia in knowing everything you put in your meal. Even more distressful is realizing you've eaten food from a can at least five nights this week.

Dishes - At home we had a dishwasher... Her name was Grandma... I kid! I was a spoil middle class brat to my public school brothers who didn't have the luxury of a dishwasher. Now I feel their pain and curse the soft, pink hands of anyone with such a monstrous machine. Dishes back home would be done in a timely fashion... Timely enough to serve my meal purposes and be left where ever I want. The next day the dirty dishes would have disappeared from my desk, couch, ceiling fan etc. and be cleaned and put away by some mysterious force. My brother and I always theorized that there were Smurfs living in the drains that would come out at night retrieve dishes and pair socks. Apparently those nice little smurfs don't come in every home! Now when I leave a dish somewhere it stays there and just sits, and sits, and sits... Then green fur starts to grow on it... And that is no substitute for a fern my friends. So I bite the bullet and bring the dishes to the sink, but there they sit, and sit, and sit... Until... And you wouldn't believe this... I have to get a spunge (I never really knew what they were for) and some dish soap... And clean the dishes off... Manually...

So those are just some of the many differences from home life that are slowly building some character into my puddy of a back bone.

Brian