So yesterday, I was sick.
Of living in absolute filth.
So I stayed home and worked a little on a freelance project and cleaned four rooms of my house from top to bottom. It is like I have a brand new home.
And, of course, after my easy breezy yesterday, I am scrambling to come up with a way for A. and I to make more money– or just different money– that would make that kind of day a little less rare. And of course, being typical me, I analyzed and hypothesized about what in the hell exactly I’m doing in school and what makes me think I’m going to be able to do this and why did I think this was this the answer? Because I’m nearing graduation and so my bank account and my calendar look remarkably unchanged– one too empty, the other way too full. And I see no dramatic developments in the future.
My parents were in town this past weekend, and Bird was so overjoyed by their visit– laughing and chattering and hollering and doing this hilarious move she learned from Miss O. where she does this big, dramatic laugh complete with knee-slapping. Oh, and biting her own arm twice and mine once, thanks to Abby the Biter. I know she’s just processing what happened (which happened again on Friday) and testing some cause-effect relationships, but geez. Lay off my Bird, Abby. Keep your biting issues to yourself, thanks.
Number one thing I love about having my parents visit (besides the excellent company, watching Bird LOVE them, restaurant carry-out, FREE date-night, and twenty bucks secretly slipped into my purse):
My parents are excellent nappers. CHAMPION nappers. Growing up, I remember them taking regular, daily naps for as long as I lived at home. They start feeling a little bit draggy, they invest forty-five horizontal minutes, and they wake up refreshed and pick up where they left off. It is a beautiful thing. They are not afraid to pause.
I am genetically constructed to fit right in with this long line of top-notch dozers. Unfortunately, A. is not wired like us. It’s hard for him to nap, poor thing. He has trouble falling asleep and when he does, he sleeps way too long and too hard and wakes up feeling like he’s taken a lot of bong hits. Or Nyquil. I don’t know really, I can’t speak for him. I do not understand what it is to be an unskilled napper, as I do not understand what it is like to be unable to read and write. Or breathe.
So back to my parents: when they are visiting, they do not disrupt their nap schedule, and there is a decree across the land each afternoon that We Shall All Nap. I don’t give myself that permission often enough, and it’s so, so nice.
A. cleaned out the garage last weekend in honor of Large Item Pickup Day, where you drag your shit to the alley and magically it is gone by morning. And we had a lot of shit. He did a thorough job, going against his packrat nature to ditch a lot of useless junk, and as a reward to himself he stacked the dorm fridge on top of the desk, plugged it in, and filled it with tasty, tasty beers. The Man-garage has been restored, he says.
So while my parents were here and we were watching Birdy stomp all over the yard, A. thought it would be nice to have a tall cold one from the Manrage. So I said:
“Why don’t you take my dad into the garage and show him your man-area?”
While we’re talking about A. and all, I’ll leave you with this A. quote from a friend’s cookout Sunday afternoon, featuring severely delayed grilling due to the birthday boy/ host getting drunk in an inflatable pool :
“Sometimes a man just gets all oiled up and forgets he has guests.”