It's Like Being a Teenager All Over Again

So I made the rookie mistake of going over to my parent's house for dinner.

Yeah, I know. What the hell was I thinking?

I'll tell you what I was thinking... "MMMMmmm... Foooood."

Among the many skills I learned from my mother was how to cook and I'm pretty damn good at it. Of course, since I now live alone, I've gone on strike and I refuse to cook unless absolutely necessary. Once in a while I will cook but only because I want to do something nice for someone I particularly care about... but it's rare.

In the past 5 months I've cooked three times. I made apple pie once and twice I made cookies. Both times were gifts for people I consider friends (so if you've eaten something I've made for you, you ought to know that makes you REALLY special).

Anyway.

I was hungry. I was also craving some company, as I've spent the week holed up in the Batcave recovering from the latest Superhero escapade. (Honestly, I'm not sure if I'll finish it, I'm definitely getting the impression that no one but me is entertained by them... But maybe that's just the seclusion talking... We'll see).

The evening started off with a whimper and only got worse. First off, my darling family wanted to know if I had spent the week cleaning. (My charming mother just loves to revile me for "living like a 21 year old boy" and never cleaning my house, personally, I figure that since no one has to see it but me, what difference does it make if it's clean?) With a sigh, I informed her that, no, I hadn't done any cleaning.

Then my father came home. The first thing he asked me was, "So, did you go out and meet any eligible men this week?"And then he laughed uproariously at his own humor. Again, I sighed. This time I took the liberty of rooting around in the fridge... Thank Carlos for my good friend Samuel Adams...

I just knew that my mother's cooking couldn't possibly be good enough for me to continue to subject myself to this. Still, the smell in the air was pretty good, so I hung in there while my father laughed at my response.

And then my sister appeared. She still lives with my parents. She wanted to ask me, "When are you taking me to Concord? There are some movies I want you to buy me..." and then proceded to list off about ten videos she wants me to purchase for her.

Um, yeah. 'Cause I'm just made of money.

Again, I communed with my close personal friend Sammie Adams. He at least wore a comforting smile as he raised a tankard to me from his lable on the beverage.

I burned my tongue on the soup but it's a good thing since I have learned that in my parent's house it's a wise policy to just keep your head down and not say too much.

Needless to say, I do not blend.

My parent's idea of a rousing good time is watching a NASCAR race with any three of their toothless (and I DO mean that) local friends while scratching themselves and burping.

Not that I'm too good for the occasional burp... And I can admit that Dale Earnhardt Jr. is a rather attractive gentleman...

But even still.

The evening ended early as I bolted out the door after repeatedly refusing offers of left-overs which will do nothing except sit in my fridge until they petrify. Before I left my father had criticized my spending habits and my lacadasical attitude about getting my oil changed and my mother had berated me for not having a 401K plan and refusing to go to bars to meet men.

Yeah. She went there.

Sam, please help me.

By the time I left I could feel the emotional weight of being completely opressed strapped to my back, almost as if I were carrying around a backpack with a 3 year old in it.

I love my family.

Very much.

But it's much better to love them from a distance.

Is it any wonder I jog late at night, in the dark, wearing black? With a family like mine, living dangerously is the only relief I get sometimes...