As most of my readers know, I live a little too close to comfort to the parental units. I live in the apartment upstairs from them. It’s interesting and sometimes it can be the same scenario as “Everybody Loves Raymond”. I’m the baby of the family; therefore, I’m treated as such. Fun. Sometimes I still feel as though I’m thirteen years old when I leave my parents’ house to go somewhere else.
“Where ya goin’ Deb?” My mom calls out, as I’ve already said goodbye to her for the fifth time.
“Oh just out with some friends.” Not elaborating too much on my whereabouts. It’s not like I’m out dealing crack or anything or that I live somewhere out in the ghetto.
Now, the funniest thing is, my mother says this certain phase that’s so funny when you think about it.
As soon as I walk in, I hear, “Ya home?” Sometimes I bust on her and just tell her it’s all in her head, but I go along with it and say ‘yes’, because it’s what I’ve been hearing all my life ever since I was a kid. I also hear the famous, “Wheredja’ go?”----if I’m close enough to have a conversation with.
Here’s the sad part about this. I get phone calls from mom. They last for an hour sometimes. I’m not sure why she just doesn’t come upstairs to see me, but usually, I just say, “I’ll be right down ma,” and sit and have coffee with her. Usually, the bulk of her phone calls made to me are concerning my father’s hygiene. Now, this guy is one clean guy! He takes about three showers per day. (Or so it seems as though he does.) The building we live in shares the same piping system. So if someone is using the water, you get a blast of cold water on your back if you’re in the shower. Lovely, right?
“Your father’s taking a shower.”
This happens way too frequently where it’s literally driving me insane. But, I totally understand when I have to call down there and inform the household that I’m taking my daily shower myself.
At night, I dream of those famous phrases that I hear on a consistent basis:
Where ya goin’?
Your father’s taking a shower.
This weekend, while spending time with my mother having a martini with her, my father walks into the kitchen to get something to eat. I can see my mother already inquisitive about his dietary impulses.
“Whaddya’ getting, Charl?”
“Wutz’ it to ya? Can’t I just get sumptin’ widout’ you drillin’ me here? Ya too damn nosey!”
“Oh yeah? Fine, because whatever it is you’re looking for, I know where it is!”
“I got it! See yastupidja’—I got it right here! Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to navigate this fridge!”
My dad looks over at me and laughs as he gives my mother this little Italian wiggle with his pointer finger and thumb sticking up waving back and forth, insinuating that she must be crazy.
Now, if you’re a guest over at my mother’s house, and she’s already been cooking since 8am, your name is already on the seating list. This usually occurs on a Sunday. I used to shuffle through her door like Kramer once I smelled her cooking. They eat around 3pm in the afternoon. During the week, 4pm. The older you get, the earlier you eat. I guess it has something to do with stomach indigestion or the fact that the early bird specials are rampant in this area. God forbid if I already made plans to eat at my favorite outdoor bar & grill—she takes offense to it. She’ll automatically think that her cooking expertise has ended.
Amy, being as nice of a person she is, will always say, “Awe, let’s eat with your parents, Deb.” I’m not sure if she’s doing this out of kindness, or doing this because my mother’s cooking is really that good. (I’d still rather sit outside and drink a cold one with my 3pm lunch/dinner or whatever it is.)
“See? Amy will stay. Go ahead Deb, have fun!” My mother calls out, almost throwing me out of the house so she can eat dinner with Amy. It’s not that I don’t like eating with my parents on a Sunday afternoon, but after dinner, my parents disappear into another room, smoking their lungs out watching game show reruns. I can’t with that. Then, maybe an hour late, they’re off to bed. 6pm is not bedtime for Deb! If they’d hang out at least till 7pm, then it would be worth it to kick around with them for a while. You literally go into a food coma minutes after eating. In the summer, we have this huge patio that overlooks this amazing view. I’m usually the ‘bartender’ of the family, and keep their drinks refreshed, as well as blare out music from my stereo from my apartment above. (It’s the typical “blend” station, so everyone’s happy.) Usually, all my sisters come over and we have a great time. I'm looking forward tothe warmer days where I can at least spend some time with them hours after dinner is served. Wish me luck!
I have to go, my phone’s ringing. It’s mom.
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