Not On My Own Blog I Don’t

Fourteen months ago, my 26-year-old stepson moved into my basement. I call him The Diva.

He doesn’t pay rent.
He doesn’t contribute to the food bill.
He doesn’t lift a finger to do anything around the house.

He does use our washing machine and dryer for his laundry.
He does eat our food, watch our television, sunbathe in our backyard, use our telephone and drink our beer.
He does have an entire shelf in the bathroom filled with organic shower products.

Yes, he’s allowed to get away with this because of his Dad’s guilt. My husband moved out of their house in 1990. And even though there were years of attempts to reconnect, The Diva wanted no part of it.

Then something happened. I think it was a breakup with his boyfriend (yes, The Diva is gay), but he’s never actually said why he decided that it was the time to move two states away from where he grew up to live with people he wrote out of his life years before. The excuse he used when he approached us about moving in was the opportunity to attend graduate school at the University in our city. Out of state tuition and room & board were WAY beyond The Diva’s budget, so we offered rent-free living and the chance to establish residency. We only asked for two things. (Which, I now know, was a HUGE fucking mistake. There should have been a list of rules 10,000 lines long.)

1. Pay $12.44 per month for his line on our cell phone family plan. (Even though he uses more than 2/3 of our allowed minutes)
2. Check and refill the water softening salts so that our well water wouldn’t stain everything mineral orange. (The only reason he was asked to do this is because his furniture blocks access to the machine and he won’t move the desk. Of course, he never actually refills it unless his Dad reminds him.)

It’s not been easy. In fact, the only thing that has saved my sanity is that I accepted a consulting job in a city 300 miles away and I’m gone 4 days every week. I leave Monday morning and get back Thursday evening. The Diva has a new boyfriend and generally leaves Thursday evening and comes back Sunday night (to wash his clothes and see what we’ve stocked in the refrigerator that he can pike).

Since I don’t have to see him very often (the occasional ‘duty visit’ if his sister comes over, or if I travel less one week), I can usually manage “out of sight, out of mind”. And y’know, that’s probably the best thing all around.

Yesterday, however, I was ready to shove my stiletto up his Diva ass.

After finally getting out of bed about 1 p.m., The Diva graced us with his presence. It was Monday. This week, I wasn’t traveling until Tuesday morning since my son (The Diva’s half-brother) had graduated from High School on Sunday evening. We had a houseful of visitors before and after the ceremony. (Oh, and by the way, The Diva couldn’t be bothered to attend this family event.)

The car my husband and I share (why have two cars when one of us isn’t home most of the week?) was smashed up in a parking lot (fucking hit and run drivers) and is in the collision shop.

My husband asked The Diva if he could use The Diva’s car to drive me to the airport this morning.

The Diva, selfish prick that he is, said, “Oh, I was going to stay at my boyfriends tonight.”

My husband didn’t bother reminding The Diva that when HIS car was not running and he needed to get to work, he borrowed MY car to get there. (And drove 50 miles and didn’t offer to reimburse us for gas OR pay us part of the money he got for mileage.)

There must have been a look, though, because then The Diva changed his tune.

“Oh, all right. I’ll come home tonight.”

Of course, it was obvious that it was killing him. He was going to have to do something for someone other than himself. The tone in his voice and his eye-rolling pretty much said it all.

When I heard about the exchange, I told my husband, “No. Tell him I don’t want to use his fucking car. And the next time he needs any of us to do anything for him, I’m going to refuse. I’ll hire a fucking car service at $85 each way.”

(By the way, none of my expenses are reimbursed by the company – it’s all out of pocket.)

My husband told him that he didn’t need to come home that night. That I would take care of getting myself to the airport.

The Diva practically danced out of the house. After thanking his father. And giving him a hug.

Seriously? You’re thanking and hugging someone who just told you that you didn’t have to do something nice and helpful for the woman who lets you live in her house rent-free?

I am so pissed off about this whole thing I can hardly see straight. I’ve never met ANYONE so self-absorbed in my entire life. Someone so oblivious to the fact that he is, essentially, living FREE under my roof ONLY because I’m a nice person. I want to send him the bill for my car service and tell him that he could have saved himself a whole shitload of money if he’d just had the decency to do without his boytoy for one night.

I want to tell him that he doesn’t deserve his boyfriend (who is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met), NOR does he deserve the family that he wants nothing to do with.

I want to tell him that he can forget about using our address to get in-state tuition.

I want to tell him that if he puts anything in his mouth from my refrigerator or pantry, he better have a receipt to prove that he purchased it.

I want to tell him that it now costs fifty-cents for a load of wash and $1 for 30 minutes of drying time.

I want to tell him that he can expect to pay for each shower he takes – I’ll calculate the electricity and water used and send him a bill.

I want to tell him that he is more immature than most 7 year olds I know and more selfish than a 15 year old girl.

I want to tell him that his rent is now $400 per month because that’s what it takes to rent a room with kitchen privileges and a shared bathroom in this University town.

I want to tell him to move his mother-fucking ass out of my basement and get his car out of MY driveway.

But I won’t. Because his dad doesn’t deserve that.

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