Living in Sin

World, my brother is moving out of my mother's house.

He is moving out of the tiny room he shares with the Possibly Gay Black Belt, who gets the top bunk while Adam gets the bottom in a room decorated with an empty tank from the Myrtle the Turtle debacle, a million sample bottles of cologne, wax imprints of his and his girlfriend's hands, and posters of porn stars.

To be leaving this pleases my brother. He and his girlfriend had spent some time investigating apartment complexes around Western New York, and finally they found one they liked, which is three minutes down the road from my mother's place. Bonus: It has a pool. Bonus: It's close to work. Super Bonus: They don't have to put up with my mother's boyfriend, who's lately been on their nerves.

A month back, my brother had come home one night with a hankering for chicken wings. So he went at in the kitchen. He fried up some wings, tossed them with some sauce, poured a giant cup of bleu cheese, and dumped those things in his mouth. He had to do this quickly because he had a party to get to. And because he had a party to get to, he didn't have time to clean up the kitchen. And the rule in the house that belongs to my mother and her boyfriend is this: If you're making your own dinner, you're cleaning up your own mess.

And for the most part, my brother abides by the rule. But he was short on time that night, so he dashed off a note. It said, GROSS CHICKEN JUICE. DO NOT TOUCH. ADAM WILL CLEAN IN MORNING. THANKS! And off he went.

When he and his girlfriend arrived home later that night--in the middle of the night--they found that my mother's boyfriend had stacked all the bowls and dishes--still slimy with gross chicken juice--onto his bed.

That was one of the last straws.

Now Adam can make chicken wings and leave the mess around until he is good and ready to clean it up. He's excited about that.

He's also excited about the following things: (1.) The fact that he and his girlfriend have made the executive decision to decorate their bathroom with an ocean/lighthouse/sea-shell theme; (2.) The fact that he and his girlfriend have made the executive decision to decorate their kitchen with a strawberry theme, complete with darling little strawberry curtains.

This is a big deal for everyone involved, considering Adam is rotten with money. He will spend it on all manners of inappropriate, ridiculous things--a fluffy woman's robe, for example--and he can't save to, well, save his life.

But the nice thing is this: He's got a stockpile coming his way. He's been paying rent at Mom's for a while now, but she's been sacking it away for him so that he will get it in a lump sum when he moves out. He doesn't know this. He's been under the assumption that my mother has been taking that money--money she just shouldn't be charging her son because it's so evil and wrong, and it's clearly indicative of her blackened soul!--and frittering it away on nonsense.

"Mom's such a bitch," he said to us this weekend as we worked our way through an enormous order of foot-longs and fresh-cut fries at The Arbor. "She's basically stealing all my money, you know. She's taking all my hard-earned cash and wasting it. As soon as she started charging me rent, she and her boyfriend started going out to the bars all the time on the weekends, and they'd get smashed. Smashed! With my money! She's using my money to get all liquored-up! Isn't that wrong?"

Boy, is he going to feel like an asshole when she hands him a few grand next weekend.

So much so that I am sad I won't be there to be able to see it. I've got my own little move happening that day. Come Saturday, me and the girls will be moving vodka and snacks, streamers and favors, and, of course, a giant penis cake into a suite downtown, where we'll begin a night of bachelorette fun.

So I'm going to be asking someone to take pictures. I just want to see my brother's face in that moment he realizes he's getting a huge wad of money that he will probably fritter away on nonsense, a huge wad of money he thought my mother was slurping up out of a beer stein at the skeezy South Buffalo bars they occasionally haunt. In that moment, he won't know what to do or say, and that, of course, is the biggest coup of all.