2005-09-23 - 3:19 p.m.
Losing It, or part 1 of what's going on, the prequel
A little over a month ago, my world started becoming a little hectic. First, there was the judging of a poster contest for this place, for which I had to plan, organize, buy judges� gift bags and cook. That same week, as it just so happens, was when my Dad was here closing on my parents� new house, which is about two hours from my house. I also had a crapload of work at the day job (the storm before the calm, let�s just say) and a bunch of freelance deadlines. (Including the final for Mr. NBA.) This is all happening just before we were to leave on vacation, and I of course had a bevy of social engagements to attend and what not and so on. C�mon, people, this is PrixMadonna we�re talking about. I am very much in demand!
Or not. Anyway, I was in a frazzled way, and my Dad was staying with us. I don�t know about your family, but mine is like an impressionist painting. I really need to appreciate it from a distance.
Let me preface this by saying I love my Dad. However, that man generates his own amphetamines the way plants produce chlorophyll. Seriously, the man needs to stay out of the light. He is photosynthesizing speed and it hurts to be around him 24 hours of the day. My father can talk with such velocity that I can feel like I am being assaulted by parts of speech.
In addition to my Dad�s extremely high intensity level, he�s used to being doted on by my mother. Let me give you some background on this, not only is my Mom the archetypal �Angel of the House,� to quote Virginia Wolff, she is half Italian. That means she needs to be caring for someone at all times and preferably feeding them in doing so. And since my sister and I left the nest, my Dad has been intensively catered to for several years, something which became apparent when I offered him an apple that went uneaten because it wasn�t sliced.
So, here I am going out of my mind with various projects, not sleeping, trying to occupy my Dad�s time and making sure he�s cared for, receiving calls from my Mom trying to vicariously care for my father through me and all the while trying to absorb what my father�s saying at approximately 427 MPH.
Fortunately for me, my family has a way of dealing with each other in exactly these situations, and that is with humor, usually at the expense of each other and also generally perverted. (And also cut out caffeine for my Dad. Just get that shit out of the house, for everyone�s good.)
My father is a vegetarian. My mother, who thinks that people need a whopping intake of protein to prevent them from fading away, feeds my father a steady diet of things like cheese and nuts. Having lived in Arkansas for the past few years, where meat is a vegetable, she fears he will starve to death and therefore always makes sure to send my father off with protein-rich snacks, in fear he will never find food.
It should also be explained that my mother, who also claims she�s never seen anything sexual about a Georgia O�Keefe painting, is occasionally na�ve in the ways of speech. In the past, she has said, in all naivet� mind you, things such as �What can I do you for?� and �Sloppy Seconds,� not realizing that they are questionable in mixed company. One day, as my father left for work, she asked him if he would like for him to send him off with a �Nut Sack.�
Well, my father did have a long trip from Arkansas to Virginia, and one needs to be prepared for such a haul with the appropriate provisions. He showed up at my house with the World�s Largest Nut Sack. I think it was a gallon-sized Zip-Loc bag. I told him, straight up, �Dad, that is the biggest Nut Sack I�ve ever seen.� I also reminded him not to leave his Nut Sack in the car, for fear that it may spoil in the heat.
It really was a big Nut Sack.
So, when I was about to lose it because my father was driving me nuts, I did the only thing I could. I yelled at my father about his Nut Sack. I told him to, �Quit leaving your Nut Sack all over the house, Dad!� and �Do you really think it�s appropriate to just leave your Nut Sack lying there?� and �Don�t forget your Nut Sack!�
See, I really am quite psychologically healthy. And I have a really healthy and appropriate relationship with my family to boot. Don�t be jealous.
Well, the time came when I had to help move my Dad (and his ginourmous Nut Sack) into my parents� new home. This was a trying experience, as you can imagine, since my father really isn�t used to taking care of himself and he gets a little crazy while shopping in the Target.
The house is cute, but the former occupants were filthy, and the house was infested with ants. There were ants IN THE FRIDGE, people. INSIDE! And it stunk. When you opened it, it smelled like someone with indigestion had burped something up from the deepest bowels of their lower intestine.
I spent an entire Sunday scouring and vacuuming and quizzing my Dad on where I�d stored the toilet paper and detergent and everything else I�d put away. The weekend culminated in the frantic attack on one of the plentiful gigantic roaches, my father armed with a fire poker.*
And then my sister arrived. I was excited! I was overjoyed! I was in a rush from work to pick her up from the airport! I was late!
I found her waiting for her luggage at the carousel. She was standing with two carts in front of her, one had her knapsack and a duffel bag on it. We chatted. I asked how the dog would be arriving. She told me she thought maybe they�d be putting it on the carousel. We chatted some more.
A little girl points over toward us and says, �Look, Daddy!�
I look at where she�s pointing, at the duffel bag. It�s not a duffel bag at all, it�s an animal carrying case. There�s a cat in it.
I look at the guy standing next to my sister, thinking I mistook the second cart as my sister�s, when it was really his.
I don�t think it�s his Emily the Strange back pack.
I look from the bag to my sister and back to the bag, �Is that a cat in there?�
�Uh-huh,� she said sheepishly.
�Is it Mr. Peanut?�
�And Chunk.�
�There are two cats in there?�
�No, Chunk is coming with the luggage. Mr. Peanut was allowed to fly in the cabin.�
�You brought your cats?�
�I told you I was bringing the two cats.�
�Uh, I think I would have remembered that.�
We have eight animals living in my house now, people. Eight. (8)
Last weekend, when we took care of my brother-in-law�s not-really-housebroken-really-barky-kind-of-abnoxious-expensive-pure-bred-puppy, we had nine. (9)
But that is part of another story, which I shall continue shortly.
*You�ll be happy to know that my parents fumigated and are now happily residing in a bug-free house.
