One million reasons why an adult child should never move in with an aging parent

So, I began with the title, "one million reasons.......".  Let's face it folks, I can't list them all, but a lot of them you can probably figure out on your own, especially if you've ever helped a relative clean up after a holiday dinner, only to discover, at the age of forty, you can't possibly know how to load a dishwasher properly, or wash a pan.

Older folks are pretty darned quirky, and it doesn't mean we don't love them, it just means that sometimes its easier to love them from one town over.  Prior to my temporary stay in my childhood home, I felt pretty independent.  I could wash a dish without supervision, and operate a microwave without fear that my wrongdoings might further damage an already seriously effed ozone layer.

One month later, I don't trust myself to do much of anything.  I can't wring a dish cloth properly, I sometimes forget to turn off the coffeepot in the allotted three seconds after emptying it, and I occasionally don't close the cupboards after extracting something from the time-spattered shelving within.  Plain and simple, I have so much in my mind at any given moment, ie:  the new book I'm outlining, the one I am writing, the six part time freelance jobs I am doing, my quest for the perfect full time job, my upcoming theater audition, my volunteer work, the endless supply of logs in the front yard, the strange smell coming from my aging dog's left ear, and the status of the EPA disaster at my cabin, etc, etc, etc, ad nauseum, that I sometimes screw up the minutia, these intricate details older folks are positively obsessed with.  I also obsess over run-on and poorly punctuated sentences.  A lot.

I digress.

I can see an F4 tornado plowing through my childhood home, and I don't mean in a crystal ball, or a Captain Crunch-induced dream at 2:00 AM, I mean more like imagining such a thing for the sake of humor in this blog.  I should clarify I find nothing humorous about natural disasters, but as Gilbert Gottfried said, "tragedy and time equal comedy."  And, those of you who know me, know I can laugh at anything.  It beats an indeterminate stay in a facility for those who've gone bat shit, which is where I might be without the laughter.

Moving on.......

So, I can imagine this tornado whipping Mom's old ranch around for a few seconds, whilst she and I huddle in the basement cavern, surrounded by whining pets.  We emerge sometime later to the disorder created by flying monkeys and my neighbor riding by on a bicycle, and Mom looks at me dead serious, and says, "did you forget to close that cupboard again?"  And I, dazed by the confusion, and her ability to recall such detail (this is the same woman who forgets what I told her five minutes ago), say, "you know, Ma, I don't know.  It could have been me, or it could have been the freakin' tornado.  Hard to say.  Oh, look, isn't that your car in the tree?"  Now to this statement, she would inevitably respond, "if you hadn't parked so far away from me, the wind might not have taken it."  Just to clarify, I am also responsible for the sinking of the Titanic, the Alamo, and Pluto being denounced as a planet.  I am all powerful.  Tread lightly.

Now, on to the grocery shopping.  This should be an Olympic event.  Grocery shopping with someone over seventy is a major event.  My mother, and let me again speak of my undying love for her, can take six minutes to select a box of Kleenex.  In this same six minutes, I've spent fifty-five bucks on everything on my list, but on the upside, it's easier to keep track of our elders this way.  I fill my cart, and leave her with the Kleenex.  I know where she is, and if she falls, the paper towels on the bottom shelf should cushion her fall.

It's equally taxing to do this solo.  I inevitably forget to check the date on everything I purchase.  It's probably because I am writing in my head, while I brainlessly toss things into the cart.  So, I've decided to propose that grocery stores change the way they label goods.  I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH IT IS.  JUST TELL ME WHEN IT EXPIRES.  I will pay seventeen bucks for a gallon of milk, if you display a sign that says "EXPIRES ON MAY 11TH." 

I will stand proudly at the checkout, successful in my task, and sign over my house (which isn't a good deal for the grocer these days), and leave with my basket full of shit that's good until June.

Job well done.

Stay tuned for the other million-or-so reasons.  They're coming.  Oh, and just for a head's up, I'll be taking this on the road as a stand-up routine, but out of respect for Mom, I'll either do it under the cloak of Witness Protection, with the help of Joan River's plastic surgeon, or wait for Mom's passing some years in the future.

Why 50 days, you ask?

So, a few people have asked me why 50 days?  Actually, I don't know, but it made sense when I realized that would take me to Memorial Day, which presented me with a three-day weekend to move the family back in. 

Now, I don't know why I think I need three days.  I moved all the pets out in about ten minutes, at night, in the pouring rain, whilst stoned out of my gourd (God, I love that phrase!) on kerosene fumes.  I may need two days to scrape all the mud off the floor, and a little time to restick the linoleum down, because the pipes burst and the kitchen flooded, so three sounds good. 

Wow, when I actually wrap my brain around all that's happened in the last month, I start thinking about putting the Exacto knife back.  No wonder you worried.

Moving on....

50 days gives me the opportunity to do 150 things.  Odd, I know.  I do things in three's.  It's the OCD, which stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, unless you're part of my family.  Then it stands for Obviously Cat's Deaf.

Let's touch on the real OCD first.  I wash my hands.  A lot.  This is good if I'm preparing your food, or if you're a stockholder in Bath and Body Works.  If you're not a stockholder, become one.  I can make you very rich. 

My OCD is mild.  It pertains mostly to the hand washing, and the obsession with the number three.  Basically, I'm like the Count on Sesame Street, only with very clean hands.

Now, on to our heritage, and family definition of OCD.  You see, sometimes I don't hear you.  This is because I have the ability to leave this planet and go to another, all from the comfort of my favorite chair.  It's less like space travel, and more like something totally effed up in my gray matter.  I accept this.  It's simply who I am.  My planet is nice.  No one spills kerosene on your daffodils.  No one kills children or beats puppies.  If you do, you're put in a capsule and sent into outer space, with nothing more than a Kenny G CD, which will repeat until your oxygen runs out. 

Wow.  I digress.

Anyhow, I am on day 6 of the 50 day plan.  I feel pretty good.  I have given up sniffing kerosene, choosing instead to be addicted to something wonderful called Bubble Tea. I have given up junk food, have successfully buttoned last year's jeans, and have convinced myself that everyone's mother acts like mine at the age of 73.  If I pretend this, I can cope with the deterioration. 

Jeez, this isn't funny anymore.

Moving on...... 

All righty then.  Time for me to get back to work, to move on to writing something other than this insane shit.  I'll be back soon, to give unwanted advice to anyone forced to move in with an aging parent.

Trust me, you want to read that one...........

The 50 Day Plan

So, as we often do as humans, I've finally embraced the sheer gruesomeness of my situation, and had a meltdown.  I felt it coming.  It's like a hot flash, only worse.  The body heats, the hands shake, and not even a King Size Reese's cup will thwart it.  And, let me tell you, if you have something that a King Size Reese's cup can't fix, you're screwed.

So, I felt the meltdown coming, and quickly fled to the cavern my mother calls her basement.  It's kind of like where the Phantom of the Opera lives, but without the monkey music box, fabulous orchestra, and the need to keep your hand at the level of your eyes.

So, I'm in the cavern, and it comes.  I'm a wreck, crying, screaming into a towel that smelled a little musty, but was still absorbent, and then.......... I step on the cat.  Not only do I step on her, but in an attempt to gain my footing, I kick her halfway across the floor.  Poor kitty.

She's fine.  I'm not.  I'm a mess, bawling, and cursing the Universe for its unfairness.  I'm bent over the old pool table, trying not to heave up something I ate in March, and I see it.  An Exacto knife.  Now, don't get nervous.  I wasn't thinking of succumbing to the darkness.  I was more thinking "hey, there's an Exacto knife."

They're cool.

So, treasure in hand, I am thinking, "what can I use this for?"  Then it hit me.  I'd use it to scratch out a countdown, kind of like Tom Hanks did in Castaway, but without the need to discuss it with a soccer ball first.  So, I found a piece of plywood, and made my first notch. 

One notch.

One day.

The first in what I've decided is a fifty-day plan to reclaim my life.  I am going home.  In fifty days I will be there.  I've decided.  Everything I do will be for this purpose, to get home in fifty days.

It could be daunting, but it's not.  A lot can be accomplished in fifty days.  In fact, you could sprain your ankle, hang out in the Barcalounger with a bag of Doritos and an ice pack for two or three days, and still accomplish a lot in fifty days.

I plan to.

I'll keep you posted...........