Today, I met an interesting woman at a bus stop. Let’s call her Margie.
Normally, I don’t talk to Margies. I don’t talk to anyone, really, especially not people at bus stops. But Margie didn’t really care who I was or how I felt. She was a jolly lass and it didn’t occur to her that I could be introverted so she just blabbered on and on about her day. And since I was having a particularly poopy one myself, I kind of didn’t mind the break from my inner monologue.
Margie is a social worker who has been laid off three times due to budget cuts. She spends her day dealing with women in crisis and juveniles in court. She makes about 25K a year and though her daughter makes more than twice that, her daughter is living at home. And not paying any bills. And using Margie’s car, which was why Margie was at the bus stop at that particular moment.
So this is a post for Margie. In fact, it’s for all the Margies out there who find themselves so blinded by their love for their children that they just can’t bear to tell them to get the hell out of the house. If you’re a Margie, have no fear. Just copy the web address in your browser right now, paste it into an email or text, and shoot it off to your lovable little mooch. Of course, there are some kids who are experiencing some technical difficulties in their lives and have extenuating circumstances. This isn’t for those. This is for the kids who are fully capable of formulating a plan for adulthood and are putting it off in exchange for the convenience of feeding off their parents. Those kids. So look around your house. Do you have any of those lingering around? If so, send them this web address, tell them you like my blog, that they should follow it, and that you’ve been doing some thinking and maybe they should also get the hell out of the house. Follow it with “lol jk” and then “but seriously, read this”.
Dear Margie’s Daughter and Boomerang Kids Everywhere:
Look at your parental figure/s. Don’t they look tired? That’s because they are. They’re old and tired because for the last two and a half decades or so, they’ve weaned you from a squealing, helpless piglet into a walking, talking, thinking human being. They paid taxes so you could go to school and gave you rides when you needed to go see your stupid significant other or when you wanted to go to a dance or do some other waste of an adolescent pastime. They went to work every day so that they could go to the store after work, fight off hordes of other parents just like them, buy dinner, come home, and cook it for you so that you could just gobble it up in 5 minutes, not leave any leftovers, and then leave the table without offering to help clean up so that you could return to some stupid aforementioned adolescent pastime. They’re tired because once you learned to drive, you’d borrow the car and leave it on empty so that they had to wake up extra early to put gas in it before they went to work, where they got more money to afford the gas they put in the car for you to run out.
So listen: they did their part. You can walk on two feet instead of four, you can poop in a toilet instead of your pants, and you can (God willing) at least sustain yourself with boxed meals from the supermarket instead of skinning small vermin in the wilderness for daily sustenance. Now it’s your turn. You’re a big kid now. And it’s time to move out.
It is. It really is. You were really only supposed to be an eighteen-year commitment. Then you were supposed to get a job and/or go to college, never to return again. But you did return. And you aren’t using any of your life skills to better the household. You’re using your money to participate in your stupid mid-20’s pastimes instead of donating it to the greater good of the unit. You shower, you plug things in, you put things in your mouth, and you flush things down the toilet. That all costs money, and it’s time to pay up. Don’t have a job? Get one. Even a terrible one.
Hey, sometimes you have to work sucky jobs. Lots of people have sucky jobs. You know what really sucks, though? Having a sucky job and not even having any money to show for it because your kid won’t move out of the damn house. So get a job and get out.
While you’re writing a big fat check to your parents for all the years they’ve sheltered and fed you past the eighteen-year contract, remember to clean up after yourself. For the love of all that is holy, take a shower. Do some dishes. Inspire your parents to soil their pants by offering to make dinner or take them out. Ask if you can go pick up some groceries for them or go fill up the gas tank, or do some laundry.
And once you’ve gotten a job, given your parents some money to offset the cost of your existence, cleaned up the room where you wove your cocoon, and landed an apartment, begin your mass exodus with a hug and a thank you to your old, tired, parent/s. Because every year you spent in their home past the eighteen-year-contract was a year of their life they can’t get back. And the Bible tells us that there’s no greater gift than to lay down your life for another.
Look at that: no greater gift. Jesus says so. You can’t ever repay your parental unit/s for this time you’ve taken from them. So just be a good little lamb and hit the road. Now. Hey- look at that: you’re already online. Just click here.
Good job. Now print out three options, show them to your parental unit/s and take a shower while they celebrate with a bottle of wine that you purchase for them. Trust me: you’re doing the right thing. And in a few decades, you can return to this page, send it to your own little lovable mooches and get your own free bottle of wine and a ticket to your golden years.
Puppies and Sprinkles,