Seems I've got to have a change of scene.

Why, hello! I'm moving some of my old posts over here just cos I like them and I don't want them to fade into the lcdset. They will all be pre-move:

In three days, I will be released again into the wild. Or, rather, the tame since I'll be living in a small, conservative town. The only other time in my life when I've lived away from a city, I spent many months in Mexico. That's a different kind of small town. Plus there was plenty of tequila and dancing.

My parents are happy to see me go and vice versa. My nerves are pretty much shot. My dad kind of ignores me unless he's happily stumbled onto something I've done wrong: I don't clean the cat litter often enough; I loaded something into the dishwasher improperly; I splashed coffee on the stairs on my way (desperately) to the shelter of my room. And so on and so forth.

My mother? She alternates from being a-okay to a bitch on wheels. Oh, and she's got that motherly martyr shit down pat. Give the little lady a hand. My mother is very political and listens to talk radio all day long. My dad hates it, so she bought herself some radio headset thing. From about 9 am until 3 pm or so, we are not to disturb her "shows." She listens at breakfast, that is when she isn't talking on the telephone. She tells my dad and me to "talk among yourselves." This would be fine, except every time I attempt to say something to my father, she pulls the headset up and asks, "Wha? What did you say?" I tell her, "I asked dad if he has any big plans for the day." And she says, "Oh." And then puts the fucking earmuffs back on.

I think I've mentioned that my father is very interested in the behavior of wild animals, African tribes, and our lawn. He is apparently uninterested in human behavior, or at least he isn't particularly fascinated with or fond of mine. I ask too many questions, I guess.

Scenario 1:

We are on our way home from shopping for new house crap for me. My dad has stayed in the truck at every store; he got out only to buy gas. My mom is anxious about missing her nap. We have to stop at some lady's house to pick up a loaf of bread she's put out on the porch for my parents, as if they are squirrels. The lady is named Marge. From the back seat I say, "I wonder why she is named Marge..." My mom says, "Uh, because that's what her parents named her. She was named Margaret." I say, "Well, if I were named Margaret, I would go with something sexier, like Maggie. Imagine how different Marge's life would have been if she were a Maggie." My dad said "I like that song 'Maggie May' by Rod Stewart. The problem is you don't hear it much anymore..." I said, "Yeah. I still think Marge is a horrible name." My mom chimed in, "Well, why do you think you are named FailedPromise?" I ignored her.

As we were driving away with the loaf of bread, they started talking about Marge and how she had to go to the doctor today and how did she get there and so forth. Marge needs new glasses. It appears that someone named "Cookie" drove her. I asked if Cookie is a boy or a girl. Cookie is a girl. I wondered aloud about her real name. It was at this point that my dad turned on the radio, probably hoping to hear Rod Stewart.

Scenario 2:

At breakfast today, my dad read a tiny bit in the local newspaper about some woman who was at a casino when her electric wheelchair slammed into the elevator, forcing it open. The woman plunged 30 floors (Update: that's an error. She fell 30 feet). I asked if she lived, laughing a little. Oops. She did. It took 45 minutes for them to get her up. I asked if the wheelchair went haywire or something. My dad said he didn't think it had anything to do with the wheelchair. I asked, "Was she drunk or something? Or angry?" Dad sighed. I asked, "What happened to her, like how many broken bones and so forth?" He said, "It doesn't say anything about that." I asked why the hell they even write articles like that if they don't provide any details. My dad folded up the paper then. I said, "I take it you won't be reading me any more newspaper stories?"

On Friday, I'll be all alone in my teeny studio cottage, reading stories from HuffPo to my cats while I drink coffee. They make a great audience. They enjoy my ad libs, unlike some humans I know.

"I guess I'm here to stay 'til someone comes along and takes my place with a different name, and a different face."

And nah, that's not me, that's Traffic. Alex must like them or something.