A loser by any other name…

Is still ridiculed.

I am 23 years old. I have a college degree and a job. I also live with my parents. Booyah.

I am also drawn to wikihows. Silly peer created and edited how to guides from the makers of wikipedia. These wikihows pop up on my igoogle page every day. Such topics as “How to not fall asleep at work,” “how to eat yucca,” and “get a girl to fall in love with you,” are fantastic ways to waste time with terrible advice. Today’s wikihow was “how to get adult kids to pay their share in your home.”

From the article:
You’re not the only one struggling with these issues. Children who come back home as adults are called “mammoni”, or “mama’s boys” in Italy; “parasaito shinguru”, or “parasite singles” in Japan; “boomerangs” or “twixters” in the US; “KIPPERS” (short for “kids in parents’ pockets eroding retirement savings”) in the UK; and “Hotel Mama” in Germany. There are parents across the world who will identify with your struggle to give tough love.

For the record, I kind of wish I wish known as Hotel Mama.

Gram’s trivet

This package has been sitting in the front entrance of our apartment building since approximately June 2008.  We just moved in last week (which brought on a serious rat infestation quandary, a rat blog post is promised soon) but I know that the package has been here for months because it was there when we came to scope out the apartment back in June.

Last night – which also happened to be my birthday – we decided at the local bar, where all great decisions are made, that we were going to open this stupid package when we got home.  We gathered around the coffee table and let her rip.

You may be wondering what this is.  It’s a trivet.  Okay so I called it an ‘iron oven decorator’ before I read the letter in the package, but it’s proper name is a trivet.  And the trivet has a pilgrim looking man and woman leaning in to kiss each other.  The quote reads:  ”KISSIN DON’T LAST, COOKIN DO”

Picture our reaction to the contents of this package after months of anticipating the possibilities of it being something actually cool.  I had hoped for an ipod.  This was a slight let down.

But the letter in the package turned this situation into something else completely.

It says:

“Dear Carolyn & Ethan:

Here is the trivet from my stove for yours – Though it was always a joke for PopPop and me as we always appreciated the Kissin as we did the Cookin for our 51 years together!

Happiness Always,

Gram”

 

I read the letter aloud.  After 20 seconds of silence and blank faces, someone pointed out, “PopPop is dead.”

Gram was the only one who signed the letter.  And we just opened a family heirloom and wedding gift from a ‘gram’ who obviously lost her husband.  I want to keep the trivet so badly.  It’s kind of badass.. with the pilgrims kissing and all.  But how could I?!  The trivet must be returned to Carolyn or Gram.  It’s a shame that it got entangled in the US Mail system and sat abandoned for this long.  Thanks be to drinking 1 too many birthday drinks and deciding to unlawfully open a stranger’s mail.

This Fiddle Faddle has no point being in this story I suppose, but John’s parents sent it to me in a package of birthday goodies yesterday (I know, I too haven’t seen the stuff since I was 8 years old) and we ate the whole box while the whole ‘trivet’ incident unfolded.  I think it nicely counter-balanced the intensity and seriousness of the situation.  And helped us make really important decisions.  Hooray fiddle faddle!

 

CAROLYN, ETHAN, OR GRAM:  IF YOU’RE READING THIS, I HAVE THE TRIVET. NO WORRIES, IT WILL BE RETURNED.

Willie Williams

Scenario:  Hospital Emergency Room, waiting for a friend to be looked at, she was bit on the hand by a cat at her job as a veterinary nurse, very late at night, lots of crazies in the E.R.

One crazy in particular is wearing sunglasses, has a long dark ponytail, and is obviously homeless and either A) on drugs, or B) suffering from withdrawal from drugs.  He is sitting in front of me, facing front, talking to himself.  My friend waiting with me points out that he has with him personal belongings in a bag from the hospital across the street.  A hospital hopper, if you will.