Daily Me
Your Only Source for the Latest About Me

Man, Interrupted

May 4, 2003 - 10:42 p.m.

Guest Book

Last Five Entries:
The Party's Over
July 11, 2004
The Next Day
My Nervous Breakdown
True Confessions: My Life as a Female Impersonator
March 15, 2004
Bite Me
February 29, 2004



The reason that people join Armageddon cults is because it's better than living with their parents.

One of the things I miss about living alone is the luxury of getting out of bed and taking a shower.

I can't do that at my parents' house, unless I wake in the middle of the night, or during mid-afternoon. Because from 6:00 a.m. until 9:30 a.m., every day, my mother has sole possession of the bathroom.

I don't know what she does in there. All I know is that she looks the same coming out as she does going in. So the three-and-a-half hours confuses me.

This is one of the reasons that my days have always started late since living with my parents, because I'm not getting in the bathroom to get a shower before 9:30 a.m. So I regularly wandered into Omega House for work after 11:00 a.m.

Our house has two bathrooms. The shower doesn't work in the second bathroom. However, apparently the sink in the second bathroom isn't acceptable enough for my mother to use while I shower.

I do sometimes get to use the shower between my mother's claimed time period. For this to happen, I must schedule an appointment to use the shower at least one day in advance. And the time period for which I'm approved is the time period I get. There is no flexibility. If I've scheduled 8:00 a.m. to 8:10 a.m., I'd better not wait until 8:01 a.m. to get in the bathroom, if I want my full ten minutes.

If only I were making this up for comedic effect.

Today is Sunday. That means it's breakfast at McDonalds day.

I don't like eating breakfast at McDonalds. For starters, the greasy food upsets my stomach. Also, I don't like spending an hour eating breakfast, especially when I have work to do. Actually, it takes me ten minutes to eat. My parents like hanging out at McDonalds. They get to say "hi" to all of the regulars. That's great for them. It isn't for me.

So why can't I just say "no" to breakfast at McDonalds? Because that hurts my parents' feelings. I told them no once. The both looked like puppy dogs who had been kicked by their master.

It's not like I never see them. I see them all the time. I live with them.

I see my father constantly. My father is one of those people who doesn't respect doors. When he thinks of something that he thinks I should know, he's going to tell me at the moment that he thinks of it. Whatever I'm doing has to wait, because he has an important announcement to make.

So I'm working on a paper. My door is closed. Without warning, the door opens, and my father comes in my room. He repeats my name until I stop typing and look at him. And then he asks me the burning question. "Do you think your car is getting 31 miles a gallon like it's supposed to?" I must now talk to him for ten minutes about gas mileage.

It's a half an hour later. I'm talking on the telephone to Hoover about a case. The door to my room is closed. Without warning, the door opens, and my father comes in my room. He repeats my name until I take the phone away from my ear and look at him. And then he informs me of the critical plan of action. "I think we should go out and check the oil in your car." So I hang up on Hoover, and accompany my father to check the oil in my car. As it turns out, it's full.

It's a half hour later. I'm having cyber-sex on the computer. The door to my room is closed. Without warning, the door opens, and my father comes in my room. He repeats my name until I remove my hand from my pants and look at him. And then he gives me the revelation. "You can pull your car up a little closer to the house when you park." I must now discuss with him the benefits saving a whole foot of distance in my walk from my car to the house.

I only get the visits from my father when he's wandering the house. When he sits down, I must come to him. So I'm in my room, working or masturbating or whatever. I hear him calling my name. I have tried the tactic of ignoring him, as if I didn't hear him, but all he will do is call my name repeatedly for hours. Or, he will call out, "Come quick!"

So I stop what I'm doing, and come to him. I must hurry, because he has directed me to "Come quick!" He's in the living room, watching television. He's pointing at the television. It's an advertisement for some sort of hidden-camera video. The advertisement features a man in a gym, working out, and making sounds as if he's passing wind. My father is laughing hysterically. "Isn't that the funniest thing you've ever seen?" he asks me. "That's a video they sell. It's guaranteed to make you laugh!"

If only I were making this up for comedic effect.

Even though the video advertisement is so funny that my life would be incomplete had I not seen it, it's not so funny that my father will retreive his credit card to order it. I guess that's something positive.

After McDonalds breakfast today, I started working on one of my papers again. I stared at the screen a while, distracted myself by checking e-mail, and stared at the screen some more. Finally, that thinking part inside my head suddenly clicked, and I started writing furiously.

This prolific moment lasted two minutes. Because then my father came into my room. He started repeating my name until I stopped typing and looked at him. And then came the plan of action for the day. "We ought to wash your car."

I couldn't tell him that I had more pressing matters and I wanted to wait until next week to wash my car. Why not? Because if I did, he would will wash my car for me. Because it must be done at the precise moment that he's thinking about it, or the world will end. And if I can't be responsible enough to wash my car that instant, then he has no choice but to pick up the slack for me. And if he had washed my car for me, I would have felt guilty.

Therefore, I washed my car today, with his help. His help, by the way, consists of doing it for me while I stand there watching. Because he isn't satisfied with the way that I wash my car.

Whatever I happen to be doing will again be interrupted at 8:30 p.m. This is when my parents go out for dinner. Just as McDonalds breakfast is an obligation for me every Sunday morning, dinner with my parents is an obligation every single night.

My parents rarely eat at home. My mother works every night (including Saturdays, often on Sundays) until 8:30 p.m. At that time, it's too late for her to fix dinner, so we all have to go out and waste an hour or more eating.

Aha, you say, why don't you or your father fix dinner? Why is that your mother's responsibility? Cogent point. The problem is that my father and I are not allowed to fix dinner.

I'm no Emeril, but I know how to set the oven timer, and how to use a Shake-n-Bake bag. My father is actually a pretty good cook, having learned many decades ago, growing up on a farm. But my mother believes that cooking is a mother's responsibility, and she keeps tight control over it. If she's not cooking, then nobody should.

My father is occasionally allowed to cook. He has only one pre-approved meal that my mother allows him to make. This meal consists of baked potatoes, green beans, and fish sticks. Yes, of all the things my father can cook well, he is allowed only bake frozen fish sticks.

I have no pre-approved meals. My mother likes to tease me, saying, "Why don't you cook for us?" To which I will respond, "Alright, how about tomorrow night?" And the conversation will end at that point, because she wants to tease me about not contributing, but she doesn't actually want me to contribute.

Again, I could just say "no" and not eat out with them. But if I say no, they will protest with a hunger strike. If I won't eat with them, then they won't eat anything.

My mother applies similar standards to cleaning as she does to cooking. The act of operating the vacuum cleaner requires my mother's express prior consent. My father and I are absolutely forbidden to wash anything.

My mother has a phobia of germs, and she does not trust that anything is clean unless she has personally washed it.

In restaurants, my mother will also clean the table after we are done eating.

I remember one day I needed clean dishes. We have a dishwasher. My mother was at work, my father was at home. I told my father that I was going to run the dishwasher.

My father got nervous. "Are you sure you should do that?"

"Why not?" I asked.

"You know how your mother is," he said.

"I know, but starting a dishwasher isn't that hard," I reasoned. "You fill the cup with detergent, set the time, and press the start button."

My father was still nervous, and he was shaking his head. "I don't want any part of this," he finally told me. "If she asks, this was all your idea." And he fled the scene of the crime.

So I ran the dishwasher. When my mother came home and discovered that this happened, she washed all the dishes again herself. And she told me simply, "You shouldn't have done that without me here."

My parents bought this particular dishwasher a year ago. It was only installed a couple of months ago. Why? Despite the fact that this house has been and continues to be tidy and clean, my mother still felt that the kitchen wasn't clean enough to allow the plumber to come and install the washing machine. My father and I asked many times what we could do to help make the kitchen clean enough, my mother always told us that there was nothing that we could do.

If only I were making this up for comedic effect.

My final interruption of the night usually happens at about 10:00 p.m. This time neither of my parents is involved; it's my cat. At the usual time, he comes into my room, sits down beside me, looks up at me, and starts meowing loudly. This is not the cute little meow song of the cat food commercials; this is a constant shriek that is more piercing than an air raid siren. This is my cat's way of telling me that it's his dinner time.

He always has food in his bowl, but that's not what he wants. He keeps meowing until I get up and follow him to his food bowl, where he will eat. It is my duty to stand there and watch him until he finishes eating. I once made the mistake of taking to my mother while my cat was eating. He stopped eating, looked up at me, and meowed at me until I re-directed my full attention to him.

If I do not watch him eat, he will not eat at all.

When he finishes eating, he usually trots off to join my parents in the living room. I am sure that there, the three of them plot against me for the next day.

Previous Next Archives Notes Guest Book

hosted by DiaryLand.com