Whenever my parents go for one of their round-the-world vacations, they usually get me or my sister to stay over and watch the house for them. House-sitting, you know. And unlike baby-sitting, at least I don’t have to mop up after a terrible meal session, change diapers or watch endless reruns of Sesame Street to keep the little one happy.
Nope. All I have to do is stay at home and well, do whatever I want.
No, really, I am doing whatever I want. I get to sleep late, sleep in and wake up late. Oh by the way, I happen to be unemployed at the moment, so yes, my sleeping habits leave much to be desired for now. I guess that goes without saying.
Okay, so I have digressed a little from my topic.
The point is, when you have your own place, you’re bound to be more mindful with how much electricity you’re using, how much water you’re wasting, how much screen time on the television you’re absorbing, etc.
But at your parents’ place, well, I’m not giving you a reason to waste their hard-earned, just-as-hard-saved money… It’s true, though, right? Here I am, blogging on my trusty little laptop, sitting pretty at the round, tempered glass table in the dining area of my parents’ home. With their lights on, their ceiling fan on, while Spartacus plays on Netflix (which I spent five hours bingeing on yesterday on my parents’ couch) in the background. The kettle in the kitchen will whistle in awhile, telling me that the water is boiled and I can then make some decaf. Tonight, I’ll be preparing dinner for myself and my husband with the ingredients from the refrigerator, using the wok on the stove, and the plates and utensils in the drawer.
You can already tell how many things you’re using that aren’t yours. That’s my mum’s dining table, their lights and fans that I’m using, the television that my dad bought, my mum’s kettle in the kitchen, the water that I’m using to make my drinks, do my laundry, and take a shower, the food in the fridge that my mum bought, the wok that she uses to cook for herself and my dad, her plates and utensils that she has been using for many years now.
But wait, I’m not an ungrateful little brat. Nor am I regressing into a lazy teenager either. Hell, no. I’m only using them because my mum said so. It’s also your childhood home anyway. Still, doesn’t it feel great to bum at your parents’ place instead of your own?