It’s Friday night; six cocktails later, you have deemed the gentleman a decent dancer and a phenomenal kisser and agree to accompany him home. You stumble from the cab, he struggles with the key and next thing you know its 8am and you need to pee. You crack open the door and then you hear it, “Ethan, is that you?” His mother. Hold bladder or tip-toe by mom? One of many agonizing questions we who still live at home must ask ourselves on a regular basis. Better his parents than yours, right? Hells yes!

A gin and tonic haze almost lets you forget that you are a bonafide university graduate who sadly, still resides with les parents. “But I save so much in rent!” Yes, I’ve heard it all. Chances are, I’ve said it all too. And we do save so much in rent; hard earned pennies actually make it into savings (if they pass the pizza après-bar or “50% off?!?” sale at BCBG test, that is) for the Euro/SE Asia/Aussie-trip in 4 or 6 months or however long it takes until Mom and Dad drive you out-the-door-and-onto-a-plane-crazy.

Like Stephen Harper, I choose to blame my broken promises on the economy. This recession is really a concession. Circa third year of university, I told myself I’d be supporting myself and a few wittily named cats (Gangster Paws, etc) in a charming London flat by my one year anni post-graduation. Oh, how reality bites. My lofty dreams carried me all the way to a part time career in retail that pays minimum wage plus a velour children’s jumper’s worth of commission. How better to quell your shattered dreams than by sucking back vodka sodas at an alarming rate. This sounds well and fine until your slippers and winter coat are splattered with last night’s lentil chili and flashes of angry cab drivers dance in your head. “Mom, will you wash my coat?” I swear, I’m moving out. Just as soon as I save enough…