This is a test post - i hope it works.
and a nap would be nice too.
A Game of Solitaire and the Toilet Seat:: Knowing When You're too Young to Grow Up.
“You see, Angeee,” my father said. “This is why I always say leave early. We would’ve beat this shit weather if you had got your ass in gear.”
I didn’t know whether to say sorry or fuck you, so I just sat quiet as my mother stroked my bowing head. A quick shoulders/back work out gave me a slight hunch that my mother might have confused for dejection.
“Italian leather is so soft, Dave. Have you ever felt Italian leather,” Grandma said to my father, who wasn’t going to respond, until my mother pinched him. Grandma really was tapped, I thought to myself.
“Dave, my mother just asked you a question,” my mother said with the authority of a wife who actually has sex with her husband.
"And I would have answered her if you gave me a friggin’ chance. My mind is on driving,” he stammered. Sucking wind like a smoker on the track, my father calmed himself down enough to answer grandma. “Liv, I used to haul furniture, come on. And we have one in the house, a sofa. You know, in the living room. You were sitting on it today.” My father was particularly agitated today and he had absolutely no time for grandma’s meanderings.
“Italian leather, Andrew, do you know how soft it is,” grandma said, as she looked straight ahead. Her face didn’t even move and I wondered if she was already dead and her voice merely a recording.
My father weaved in and out of lanes like aBoston
I was compelled to have the last word in my fruitless, running argument with my father. “This weather sucks,” I muttered under my breath as we pulled up to the check in. “I shouldn’t have even signed up for this fuckin’ trip, I swear. Sucks. Absolutely sucks.” The rain now splashed down on the car in waterfall increments I did not want to move.
“Ange, stop already!” my father’s voice began to rise. “Would you have rather been the person everyone was waiting for?”
“I would have rather been the person who called in to cancel his ticket,” I spitefully commented, knowing that this would surely get him steamed.
“Well next time, you pay for your own goddamn trip!” he growled, and before I could respond, he looked at me in his rearview and said, “Just get the fuck out of the car.” Our goodbyes would have to be said over the phone.
With a huff, I slid the van door open, grabbed my duffle bag and rejected my mother’s reaching eyes. Before the door even had time to click closed, my father skidded out and nearly side swiped a bus. And the rain remained persistent as I stood outside the terminal and tried to turn my head 360 degrees to capture every instance of life. Or maybe I wanted to break my own neck, I’m not sure.
I didn’t know whether to say sorry or fuck you, so I just sat quiet as my mother stroked my bowing head. A quick shoulders/back work out gave me a slight hunch that my mother might have confused for dejection.
“Italian leather is so soft, Dave. Have you ever felt Italian leather,” Grandma said to my father, who wasn’t going to respond, until my mother pinched him. Grandma really was tapped, I thought to myself.
“Dave, my mother just asked you a question,” my mother said with the authority of a wife who actually has sex with her husband.
"And I would have answered her if you gave me a friggin’ chance. My mind is on driving,” he stammered. Sucking wind like a smoker on the track, my father calmed himself down enough to answer grandma. “Liv, I used to haul furniture, come on. And we have one in the house, a sofa. You know, in the living room. You were sitting on it today.” My father was particularly agitated today and he had absolutely no time for grandma’s meanderings.
“Italian leather, Andrew, do you know how soft it is,” grandma said, as she looked straight ahead. Her face didn’t even move and I wondered if she was already dead and her voice merely a recording.
My father weaved in and out of lanes like a
I was compelled to have the last word in my fruitless, running argument with my father. “This weather sucks,” I muttered under my breath as we pulled up to the check in. “I shouldn’t have even signed up for this fuckin’ trip, I swear. Sucks. Absolutely sucks.” The rain now splashed down on the car in waterfall increments I did not want to move.
“Ange, stop already!” my father’s voice began to rise. “Would you have rather been the person everyone was waiting for?”
“I would have rather been the person who called in to cancel his ticket,” I spitefully commented, knowing that this would surely get him steamed.
“Well next time, you pay for your own goddamn trip!” he growled, and before I could respond, he looked at me in his rearview and said, “Just get the fuck out of the car.” Our goodbyes would have to be said over the phone.
With a huff, I slid the van door open, grabbed my duffle bag and rejected my mother’s reaching eyes. Before the door even had time to click closed, my father skidded out and nearly side swiped a bus. And the rain remained persistent as I stood outside the terminal and tried to turn my head 360 degrees to capture every instance of life. Or maybe I wanted to break my own neck, I’m not sure.
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1 comment:
Congratulations on your first blog. However, you used the letter o instead of the number 0 in 08. I had to figure that out when the blog did not work. Please don't fall asleep now...LOL. Take your nap before class.
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