Morning Bitch-ual

When you live with your father, don't expect to have a lovely morning ritual, like say, QUIET.

I am not one of those cranky, I-cannot-be-spoken-to-before-coffee-and-a-shower-and-whatever-I-decide-I-need-and-I-might-bite-your-head-off-while-you-guess-my-morning-mood people. I was married to that guy. No, I simply like to eeeeeeaaase into my day. And that mostly means listening to the quiet. Perhaps with a cup of jasmine green tea. Nice. I think I will try that.

Here's exactly how I was greeted at 7AM when he heard my footfall upon the upstairs outside the Den of Iniquity: "THERE'S A POLL THAT SAYS 45% OF PEOPLE BELIEVE WHAT WE ARE DOING IN IRAQ IS RIGHT!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!?!?"

"Oh my god, Dad, your voice, so loud." (And then I add inexplicably, weakly, "what?")

"THERE'S A POLL, I MEAN DO YOU BELIEVE THAT?! I MEAN I DON'T REALLY BELIEVE THE POLL..."

Like any good pseudo-teen, I retreat back down to my room, keep it dark, and quietly relay my seething hatred to my computer. Then I hear the clanging drop of the toilet seat onto the porcelain from the bathroom over my room, the kind of toilet seat drop that temporarily stuns one of your eardrums into deafness when you are the one who let it fall from your grip. My eardrum just twinged.

Still High on Mountain Air

Lots of good stuff slogging around in my brain since I returned from vacation to of all places, my home town. Went to celebrate a friend's wedding, but for me, the celebration was just in being home. Odd too, since my dad lives here, not there, my brother lives here, not there, and my mother lives elsewhere, not there or here. So there. Good thing my parents have always had a knack for picking stunningly beautiful places to settle, where others vacation, and few live. Therefore, I always feel like a local no matter where I go. Even in the face of of my current upheaval, it will always be home to me. And all the good stuff trapped in my noodle and not getting typed out, is getting closer to freedom in cyberland.

I need to get something to eat and consider cleaning up the cooking destruction dad has left in the kitchen. Sigh.