Friday, July 11, 2008

Carpet Licking

You didn’t actually think this post would be about licking the poon, did you? Suckers.

(All you sick fuckers who just clicked on this site who don’t know me, well, you should know me, but I don’t lick the poon. Keep reading, sometimes these posts are somewhat interesting.)

My mom recently ordered new carpeting for their living room and den. Their living room is pretty spacious, definitely bigger than my 16x20 deck. They had lots of shit in the living room; couch, recliner, cabinets, their 61” TV (yeah, they copied me). Oh, and a piano. A fucking heavy piano. I think I messed up my knee again trying to move it.

Well, my mom and dad don’t talk. They live in the same house but sleep in different bedrooms. Ideal marriage, don’t you think? We moved all the shit out of the living room on Monday. Some guys came in and tore the carpet out on Tuesday. Mom’s been bleaching and coating spots where the cat had peed in the corners (fucking cats). The carpet guys come back on Monday

(Going over to the parent’s house for dinner has sucked lately. The TV has been moved and isn’t hooked up, the couch has shit on it and there’s nowhere to sit. I go there, eat, and pretty much leave. Still free food I guess and Molly gets to play with the other dogs for a bit.)

Again, my parents don’t communicate unless its through Post-it notes. I’m sure my dad left one on Thursday. He left for a week off in the Boundary Waters (between Minnesota and Canada). He goes there once a year with a friend canoeing, out in places that cell phones don’t work and you have to shit out in the wild. Yeah, I went once. Rained every day and I didn’t shower or shave for eight days. Not exactly my cup of tea.

So dad’s gone for a week. All their living room furniture is in the kitchen and the piano is in the hallway. I certainly can’t move all that shit by myself and my 60-year-old mom certainly can’t help me. The house will be in disarray probably till next week Sunday. What does that mean for me?

I’ll have to go over for dinner and actually talk to mom. Painful. Answering the same question three times, having rented movies pushed on me (it was Ben Affleck’s directing debut!), and trying to help here do something in Word (which I hate, I’m an accountant) will become the norm for the next week. Just. Fucking. Great.

But, of course, I have to do it. mom, home all alone for a week, she’d go even more psycho than she already is. I feel like I have an obligation to swing by there every night. Sure, I get food out of it, but with gas prices the way they are I could swing by McDonald’s on the way home and save money. But mom’s going to need someone to talk to, as shallow and lame as those conversations will be (I don’t let much out, parent’s don’t need to know too much).

So, there you have it, pray for me. Maybe I’ll find out mom’s work schedule and if she isn’t home I can avoid going over there. I mean, really, who eats without watching TV? Not me, buddy-o.

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