Tales From The Homestead
Greetings from the temporary Banshee Headquarters! There are many things that have come along with living with my parents, and of course most of them have to do with my parents themselves. MomBanshee and DadBanshee are pretty funny people, and there have been many occasions in the last few weeks that have had me either laughing my brains out or slowly backing away from the situation, wishing I had a teleporter to whisk me away from the madness. Allow me to explain.
My mother has to put together a mass email for work. The following happens.
Mom: Show me how to do this. I have to email all these people and attach a file.
Me: Okay, here’s how you do that.
Mom: So you’re going to do it for me?
Me: I thought I was teaching you how to do it.
Mom: Why would I do it when you know how to do it?
Me: Did I just get roped into something?
Mom: Oooh, look, The Bachelorette is on!
Me: What about the email?
Mom: Yeah, have fun with that.
Me: I do believe I’ve just been schnookered.
Another example. It’s cocktail hour. Not for ME, relax. So mom and dad have on some god-awful show on Fox News, and I’m biting my tongue and dreaming of Rachel Maddow. A ridiculous ad comes on about investing in gold.
Me: Seriously? This is what people who watch Fox News do? They sit on piles of gold?
Dad: Not me.
Me: Well yeah, I think I would have noticed if you were perched on top of a heap of gold bullion.
Dad: I’m investing in wheat.
Me: *spits out water*
Dad: Wheat! It’s the investment of the future.
Me: Are you very drunk?
Dad: No, I’m thinking about wheat. Wheat futures! I’m going to be so rich.
Me: You could just buy a box of cereal and sit on that.
Me: You need a hearing aid.
Dad: No I don’t. I’m just busy thinking about my future.
Me: Your future hearing aid?
Dad: Nope. Wheat.
Me: (to my mom) YOU married him.
Mom: YOU share his DNA. Ha ha.
Me: NOTHING OH MY GOD.
Dad: Hmm. Wheat.
Me: *pounds head against the wall, begging for unconsciousness*
Then there’s the dog. The dog is spoiled rotten, because my parents have no grandchildren. Before they go to bed, they let the dog out for the last time, and the following happens every night.
Me: *smoking on the patio*
Dog: *doing everything but what she’s out there to do, including getting covered in burrs, wandering around aimlessly, and hunting toads*
Mom: *outside with a flashlight, begging the dog to do her business*
Me: You know, dogs don’t speak English.
Mom: Come on Shelby (the dog) go like a good girl! Go like a good girl, Shel! Come on! Come on!
Me: I don’t think she’s listening.
Mom: COME ON SHELBY!
Me: You might have better luck yelling at the pavement.
Mom: Come on, idiot! I’m sick of this!
Me: Mom, you DO realize you’re standing in the dark with a flashlight, trying to reason with a dog?
Mom: Shelby, if you go like a good girl, I’ll give you ICE CREAM!
Me: You’ve got to be kidding me.
This happens every night, people. Every. Night.
So there you have it. Just another normal day at the Temporary Banshee Headquarters. Somebody send help. Quickly. Please.