It's been three years since I moved home with mom and dad, a result of my inability to control my spending and keep a steady job. When I first returned home, I swore I wouldn't live there for more than one year. In my naive mind, it was just a question of paying off some debt and getting myself back on track with some temp jobs. The unexpected problem turned out to be that temporary work is exactly what it sounds like...temporary!

In my new life, I make great money for about a month and then suddenly I'm unemployed for six weeks, so that all the moolah I banked flies out the window and it' s back to scrounging for more cash. This fact of existence is lost on my parents, who don't understand why a 45 year old man with a law degree can't rake in some serious dough. It's not a reality they like to brag about to their friends, whose sons are plumbers and electricians and somehow live in three bedroom homes big enough so they can endlessly bitch about their property taxes.

I've become their caretaker, which they deny. "You can move to Oregon," my mom exclaims, "you're Dad and I will be fine." Sure, I think, you have no issues, except your bad backs, your lousy eyesight and your inability to remember to take the sixteen types of pills your doctor demands you to do.

So dear reader, be prepared, I'm going to complain some in the coming months. You see, I've discovered the new premise of my life: I'm over 40, fat and friendless and I've got nothing left to do but blog.