Well, not exactly with my parents.
You see, they live in a house. As, you know, people tend to do.
I, on the other hand, live in their barn.
Which, I think we can all agree is infinitely more awesome then living in their basement. Not that I really have anything against people living in their parents’ basements. I mean, seriously, you guys. I live in a barn. It’s not like I can afford to be all judgey here.
And, while I know living at home with the parents is not exactly every thirty-six-year-old single woman’s dream living situation, I can’t really complain.
After all, I spent five years in Asia living with my coworkers. And, no offense to my former coworkers or anything, but that shit was whack. (Excuse my language. But, I couldn’t really think of a politer way to say it. And, well, that shit was whack.)Besides, if a girl’s got to live with her parents, you can’t really get much better than my parents.
Seriously, you guys, my parents are awesome.
And I’m not just saying that because my parents read my blog. Well, actually, only my dad reads my blog, as my mom’s not really into the Internet. Which is probably a good thing. Because if my mom knew I was posting photos of her in a chicken costume online, I’d probably have to go find a new barn to live in.
I’m saying my parents are awesome because, well, they are awesome.
In fact, they’re so awesome I’ve started to suspect we’re not really related. I mean, sure, I’ve got my mom’s dark hair. And I’ve got my dad’s nose.
But, other than that, we don’t have a whole lot in common.You see, my dad’s the type of person who can wake up at five in the morning on a regular basis even when he doesn’t have to.
He can drive for twelve hours straight without stopping.
And he can fix pretty much anything with a piece of wire and some duct tape. Sometimes he doesn’t even need the duct tape. Like, the other week, he fixed my toilet with a paper clip. See? Awesome.
I, on the other hand, can barely wake up by nine. And that’s only if someone’s paying me to get up at that time.
My forty-minute drive to work everyday makes me want to punch everyone in the face. Including myself.
And I can fix… umm, lemmethinkforasecond… breakfast? Does that count?My mom is also all kinds of amazing.
She can milk a goat, upholster a couch and bake a mean pie. Which, sure, may sound impressive as is. But did I mention she can do all of that at the same time?
You know what else she can do at the same time?
Give birth to three babies.
And she didn’t even send any of us back, you guys.
I, on the other hand, can hardly think and walk at the same time. And if I ever had triplets, you can guarantee I’d put them in a box on the street with a sign above it saying “Free Babies.”
(Ha, ha. Just kidding. I’d totally sell those suckers on eBay.)
(Ha, ha, still kidding. Come on, guys. I would never do that. I mean, I don’t even know how to use eBay.)My parents and I also have very different ideas of how one should spend one’s free time.
In the evening, while I’m inside watching reality TV shows in my bathrobe, they’re outside doing chores. I don’t even know what these “chores” are, but I suspect there’s a lot of physical labor and wrangling of cows involved.
Then, last Sunday, I discovered my mom outside in the rain putting up Christmas lights.
On the chicken coop.
And this Sunday, my dad was outside in the rain chopping down trees.
Meanwhile, this is how I like to spend my Sundays:
So, yeah, as they say, the apple has fallen pretty far from the tree.
In fact, this apple kind of rolled down the hill, went under a bush, and ended up fermenting into something alcoholic.While I certainly can’t complain about my parents, I’m sure they have plenty of reasons to complain about me.
I mean, I wasn’t the easiest kid growing up.
I spent a lot of time pouting and stomping and slamming doors.
When my parents asked me what I did at school each day over the dinner table, I’d grunt back at them. Or sigh melodramatically and complain about how other parents didn’t make their children do horrible, evil things like tell them what they did at school that day.
And, when I became old enough to drive, I developed something of an uncanny knack for running their car into mailboxes. Or barn doors. Or really any inanimate object ever. And then would pretend like I hadn’t done it and would claim that the side view mirror had always been hanging off the car like that and they just hadn’t noticed it.While I’d like to say I’ve matured and become a much better person, there are times when my inner pouty, stompy, melodramatic teenager comes out and decides to mow down a few mailboxes.
Like anytime I’m stressed.
Or haven’t had much sleep.
Or am hungry.
Which is pretty much all the time, so maybe I haven’t changed at all. At least, I don’t have the poofy bangs anymore. So there’s that.
As I’ve said before, returning home after six years overseas has been pretty stressful.
And, while I’d like to think I’ve been a relatively decent person in public, admittedly, I’ve been less than decent at home. I’ve been cranky and uncommunicative and prone to holing myself up alone when I probably should be helping out around the house.
And when I do help out around the house, it ends up looking like this:
I haven’t managed to run the car into anything yet. But, give me time.I’ve felt pretty bad about being such a brat lately.
So I took my parents out for dinner and drinks after my last class on Friday. As a way of thanking them for putting up with me for the past six months and to celebrate the end of my semester (and to, hopefully, convince them not to kick me out of their barn because it’s nice and warm in there and it’s not just me, you know, I have my cat to think about now) .
We scarved down a pile of nachos.
And kicked back an entire pitcher of margaritas.
And, then, we chatted about reality TV shows.
I started to think that maybe the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree, after all.
That is until we got home and my parents announced they had to go to the barns to do chores.
Meanwhile, I made my way to my barn.
To do some of this:Did you fall far from the tree? (Feel free to answer that question figuratively or literally. Or, you know, you’re welcome to just talk about your favorite Sunday activity or your preferred alcoholic beverage. I won’t judge. I mean, I live in a barn for crying out loud.)