You might believe you had a happy childhood. You might have fond memories of learning to ride your bike while your dad was away at fish camp, so you could surprise him at his homecoming. You might remember falling and getting up and pedaling and falling and getting up and falling again, and when your mother asked if you'd like to stop for the day you picked up your bruised body and looked at her through twig entangled hair and yelled, your red mouth sputtering with sobs and dirt, "No! I'm [sob] having [gasp] FUN!!"
You might remember those endless, cricket-orchestrated summer evenings, when you and your best friend concocted wild, elaborate schemes to spy on the neighborhood weirdo, and such schemes always involved fleeing across adjoining yards and hiding behind bushes, your hearts pounding, and somehow, back then, hiding behind a bush was the greatest thing you'd ever done in your life.
You'd brew rare and exotic perfumes out of magnolia blossoms, walk your cat to school, gingerly touch the spines of your dad's Hyalophora cecropia caterpillars as they wobbled their fat green bodies across cherry prunings and wonder how on earth these hungry little accordions could transform themselves into cinnamon-sprinkled moths with 4-inch wingspans.
The thing is, while you were spying on weirdos and sniffing bugs, your parents were busy arguing about chore delegation and capital gains. You were out there having an absolute hoot, and your parents were completely miserable. Miserable with their jobs, with each other, with the amount of work it took to keep you alive and kicking. You didn't see how flawed these two people were, how unprepared they had been to bring new life onto this lonely blue marble (but is anyone really prepared for it?) You didn't start to see this, well really until after college, when you came back, a bonified person, with new eyes and a new understanding of where you came from.
This is how I returned to my aprents at the wizened age of 23. One night, as I sat down at the table, Daddy walked into the dining room and yelled, "Where is it??"
"Where's what?" I asked.
"The part that goes with the walkie talkies!"
"What part that goes with the walkie talkies?"
"It's a black piece of plastic, it came off one of the casings, it's about one centimeter by a half-centimeter. I put it right here on the table!" my indcredulous father cried.
I looked down at the dining room table. I give you this list, dear reader, in the naive hope that you will believe me when I tell you that not one item has been falsely augmented. The 3ft squared table supported:
Three placemats.
Two DVDs.
One bulb of garlic.
Two candles.
One bag of Halls Mentholyptus Cough Drops.
Fifty pages of Franklin Covey planner inserts.
One bottle of water.
One copy of Mark Bittman's "How to Cook Everything."
One eyeclass case.
Three salt and pepper shakers, two of them shaped like Santa and Mrs. Clause.
Three coasters.
Forty-two pieces of mail.
Two walkie-talkies.
One bottle of wine.
One road map of Lansing, Michigan.
One Dog Music Poetry book.
One kitchen towel.
One ElderHostel catalogue for 2008.
One calculator.
One Spartan Senior Citizen newsletter.
One exercise log.
One Burcham Hills Retirement Community brochure.
Two folders of Ferris State University conference materials.
Two overweight cats who like to play with small things.
And six Band-Aids.
Dad points to the table. "How could it be in a safer place?!" he demands.
I don't know how to begin. But I do anyway. "Shoey might have been playing with it and knocked it off."
Dad is now crawling under the table with a flashlight. He is adamant, "No, Shoey would have TOLD ME!!"
Shoey is one of the aforementioned cats.
At this point my Mother is standing in the kitchen doorway. When Daddy straightens up, holding the flashlight but sans small plastic piece, her glare is something to behold.
Dad: "How was I supposed to know some guy was going to come in here and do something stupid with my piece of plastic?!"
It is at this point that the doorbell rings. In storm four paratroopers with Uzies.
"We're here for the child, ma'am," one of them says to Mom.
"What child?" Momma asks, "My youngest is 23."
"We don't make exceptions, ma'am. We've been doing surveilance work and we've concluded there is no way this child could have received an emotionally healthy upbringing in this household. We've been ordered to remove the child from this mental squalor and place her in a more nurturing environment."
The man brandishes the edict.
"This is what we do, ma'am. Retroactive Child Protective Services. Giving messed up young adults the chance to start over with a family who won't make them nuts."
For Immediate Release
Richmond, Virginia
While working diligently in the quiet hum of her Innsbrook office last Saturday, 26 year old Molly Payne opened an email that changed her life.
"Thank God someone answered my ad!" Payne told reporters Saturday evening as they clustered around her charming, spacious home, eager to get the first snippet of her big news. Payne was referring to the personals ad she'd recently posted on a popular dating site:
Sexy single gal seeks misogynistic Ivy League prick to elucidate the intricacies of Post-Postmodern seduction.
CoastToCoaster, a self-described erudite New Jersey professor, had seen her ad and written a soulful love sonnet in response:
I didn't bother to read your profile (way too long... try leaving a bit of mystery), but holy crap you're hot.
"As I read his email," Payne explained, "I was turned on right away. I mean, he's saying, 'Wanna fuck?' and 'I don't give a crap about who you are or what you have to say,' all at the same time! Wow. I've been waiting my whole life to hear this."
She went on to describe her revelation. "I realized he was so right.... why settle for only 37 emails a week with the profile I have now when I could be getting at least 42? And all I have to do is put up some nude photos and delete all that garbage about saving turtles and holding hands."
A realization made somewhat moot by the appearance of a man who stands to render all other suitors hopeless. Payne prays this Princeton Charming will overlook her clearly worthless Big 10 Cow College education and rescue her from wordy online dating profiles and otherwise almost certain future of suicidal loneliness.
Wedding plans in Sri Lanka are pending.
September 2010
Things You Can Do When You're Unemployed.
1. Head To Your Workout Class Half-Drunk.
This is really only practical when you live across the street from the YMCA, which I do. Although I'm pretty sure my instructor, whom I unfortunately idolize, totally figured it out which is why she tried to ignore me the whole class period. I really really hope this isn't the case. I would die. But honestly the time goes by so much faster.
2. Pay More Attention To Your Spiders.
I mean really. When was the last time you made sure there were enough soft-bellied insects inhabiting your home for your house spiders to eat? There's this totally faithful spider, she doesn't even have a name that's how much I've ignored her, who has lived above my kitchen sink in this jumbled, clumsy web for at least four months. And I have no idea if she's had a decent meal lately. The gorgeous, fat, graceful orb-weaver outside, Gladys, I put out jars of honey to catch flies for her, I mean she doesn't even need help! She's outside! This poor creature in my kitchen is in a closed environment and I haven't done a damn thing to ensure she gets some proper nutrition. Now, finally, I have the spare neurons to address this. Just be sure your traps are debilitating but not lethal, as the bugs need to be wriggling when you gingerly foosh them onto your patient arachnid's web.
3. Perfect Your Dogs' Speaking Voices.
This is great fun, and the higher and squeakier the better. Your dogs will love it and no one else will find it irritating, I promise.
4. Have Really Great Conversations With Your Dad.
Dad: "I talked to Mitch Rosengleurb."
Me: "That's not his name."
Dad: "Mitch Rosenwasser?"
Me: "Yeah that's his name, but that's not what you said."
Dad: "I know, I burped mid-last-name."
FYI, my Dad recently bought a Garmin. He uses it to get directions to work and to the grocery store. FYI, my parents have lived in the same house, and my Dad has had the same job, since 1979. He says he does it to get his money's worth. And if anybody uses this to make an awesome Garmin ad I will be really pissed.
