Sex and the… Parental Abode
Here’s a little known secret about Yours Truly: I live with my parents. I pay rent, and I have my own bathroom, but still: I live with my parents.
While my oft-stamped passport would suggest that I’m entirely too cool for the pathetic state of affairs in which I, well, conduct my affairs, I’m not. This is because I went to a private liberal arts school and although I received a rather sizable scholarship, this scholarship fell well short of the annual tuition hikes. I’ve racked up tens of thousands of dollars of student loan debt over the years and unlike sensible people who borrow tons of money in the knowledge that they’ll someday make tons of money (lawyers, or doctors, for example), I know that I’ll never make tons of money unless I write the great American novel (and I’ll have to stop blogging— and probably stop dating— in order to do that, so I don’t really see it happening any time soon).
In the meantime, because I’ve been cursed with wanderlust and a love of non-sensible things (and because my parents have a rather nice house in a rather convenient location), I live at home.
Dating, therefore, especially serial dating, requires a bit of creativity on my part (Yes, I know it’s only 34 degrees out, and I know that’s only two degrees above freezing, but the roof deck is totally empty right now! We can light the fireplace and pretend we’re camping. It’ll be fun!)
It also requires some cooperation on the part of my would-be suitors (I don’t care that you have a job/are studying for your GMATs/have an audition in New York/are currently visiting family in another state. My parents are out of town. I repeat: my parents are OUT of town! )
I realize that my “You, here, NOW!” tendencies may seem a bit over the top considering the fact that I’m now 25 and ought to, therefore, be less boy crazy than I was in high school. But when you live with your parents, you have to seize every opportunity to well, you know…
I should point out that I’m not actually having wanton sex with any of the men I’ve met on Match.com. I promised myself early on during The Experiment that I’d… well, essentially that I’d keep my pants on because dating 17 men in a span of three months one thing. Sleeping with 17 men is an entirely different matter.
Nonetheless, I’ve encountered more than my fair share of desirable men over the past three months and it’s like my dad always says: You’ve got to make your hay when the sun shines. I suspect, of course, that he was talking about my career (and not my carpe diem attitude towards periods of parental absence) but I think the same principle applies.
So, as of last week, my parents are on a cruise somewhere in the Caribbean— score! They left me several twenty dollar bills as a token of thanks for watching the dogs with specific instructions that I use the money to buy myself a drink (“or several drinks”) at Catahoula’s— double score! I have the house all to myself, the sun is shining and there is hay to be made. But Date #17 is being rather difficult.
To date, his need to succeed has caused me to:
A) Miss the half price ticket offer for the Painted Bride’s production of “The Real Americans” and subsequently the opportunity to spend a precious Thursday night attempting to get cultured. (I waited for three days for him to let me know if he wanted to join me and by the time I deduced that his silence on the matter translated to “not interested,” the half price ticket offer had expired.)
B) Also, to waste an entire week of valuable “alone time” in my parent’s house. (Obviously his father never taught him to make his hay when the sun shines.)
C) Finally, to eat an entire half pound of prosciutto myself.
I guess I can’t really blame the last one on him—I didn’t have to eat the prosciutto—but I bought it with the intent of having Date #17 over for dinner and seeing as he’s been too busy studying for his GMATs (and training for his marathon) to indulge me in my domestic goddess fantasies, I was forced to consume the entire half pound of dry-cured ham.
C’est la vie.
Here’s hoping that Date #17 gets his act together soon, or else my parents’ cruise will prove to be a completely wasted hay-making opportunity and I’ll have to go back to ferrying my would-be boyfriends up to the roof deck.
Kat Echevarría Richter 
10 Responses to “Sex and the… Parental Abode”
I hate to always be the pessimist, but I just don’t know about Number 17… As said in the Goddess’ Guide To Love, “A Goddess is pursued…she DOES NOT pursue…” You are doing a whole lot of work here…
I mean COME ON already! An empty house, a beautiful woman and a whole lot of ham! How hard do we have to work here? Any other red blooded male would have been on the first bus over! HHMMMM let me think about it… a cold and boring book or a warm and inviting woman? Book…woman…book…woman… (You see where I am going here…) I am sorry to say it but I read, He’s Just Not That Into You, and #17 is not putting out the hard core “into you” signs… (Says the girl who has spoken to her long distance man for a total of 9 minutes over the past 13 days – but he has paid for a ticket to Argentina. So maybe that balances out somehow…) I digress…
I know… it sounds bad, doesn’t it? I keep hearing Dr. Phil’s voice in my head saying things like, “He’s just not that into you” and “You date what you tolerate” and “Get a clue girl!” (and with Dr. Phil’s southern accent, that last one is particularly menacing). But the other voices in my head are saying, “He bought me flowers! He took me to a dance concert! And how many men take a girl to a Steven Starr restaurant on a first date?” Ugh…
On a slightly happier note, a ticket to Argentina totally compensates for the lack of communication. You go girl!
I was unable to date while I lived at my parent’s. Let’s be honest….There was no hay making. My parents were so strict. In my mid twenties when I lived their for a summer, they wanted to know when I was going to be home every night. Really?!?
I feel for you. Hope Date 17 gets on the move!
Oy vey! My parents are generally pretty cool about things (they get a kick out of my blog, for instance, and sometimes my dad even gives me a lift into Center City for my Match.com dates) but I’m still not allowed to have a man in my bedroom with the door closed. And the floorboards outside of my door squeak, so its rather difficult to sneak anyone upstairs anyway (I suspect, actually, that my father installed them squeakily on purpose).
We did offer you the semi-flat downstairs, no squeaky floors down there, however it is noisy and the dogs basically live there too–choices, choices,choices…we’d have to increase your rent though ;), and yes folks I am confirming we do make her pay rent, seriously.
The opposite sex is slightly hard to fathom sometimes and I hate to say this but another possibility I could think of – when he did all the nice things initially, he could be bored so he was out for some fun..
And according to the rule, guys like to do the chasing and if the girls come onto them too much, they will gradually lose the interest (sadly)..
Ugh… I hate the rules!
Rules are great, I love breaking them 🙂 I think rules are useful sometimes. I look at them as the effective guideline after thinking through a situation very carefully. But, sometimes I rethink where they came from and ditch them because they no longer apply.
I have found myself to be much less rule based and more focused on growth and developing/maintaining good boundaries. For me, this helps me to grow in a constructive way and allows room for me to screw up or the situation to go awry without me getting injured in a long lasting way.
Sometimes I wish I still lived with my parents and I’m 29. Go figure…
I keep misreading “parental” in this title as “prenatal”, which ends up with a disturbing meaning…