Recently I’ve had the pleasure/misfortune of spending more time with my parents. See, I failed to secure an apartment as my previous lease expired, thus forcing me back home to the town of my youth, into my parents’ house of mirth, in Mansfield, MA. Surprisingly, my time at home has not been as bad as I would imagine, but I can’t say the transition has gone seamlessly. My mother inexplicably comes into my bedroom every morning to wake me up and ask me what time I’m getting up. I don’t understand her daily thought process that leads her to doing this and she doesn’t understand when I answer, “Well, what time is it?” I wish I was joking. Then when I got home tonight I found this note on my bed:
For those of you who may not be able to read my father’s handwriting, let me transcribe it here for you:
- Dave, Pls clean up your room. Throw down dirty clothes (smell) and get rid of food and dirty dishes.
I’m not sure what I’m more offended about, my father smelling my room, deciding it smells, and putting his unfavorable opinion (Slander!) in cutesy parenthesis, or my father underlining “of food and dirty dishes” as if I’m enrolled in that humiliating parenting class Marge and Homer had to take when Bart, Lisa, and Maggie were taken away. And he tells me to simply “get rid” of the food and dishes, as if throwing the leftovers in the garbage and washing the dishes in the sink were tasks I am unable to handle. “Get rid of it, son. I don’t care how you do it, or where this stuff ends up, just get rid of it.” How did he skip over the question “Dave, you’re 25 years old, why do you have food and dirty dishes in your bedroom?” Had this question been posed I would have responded by casually hanging a “No Trespassing” sign on my door. Then, once the coast was clear, I would inform my tea party guests that we shan’t be disturbed again and ask Becca if she plans on finishing the rest of her stale muffin.
Dave T.
