The Glamorous Life of an Orphan

Hello all,

I am writing you today from my childhood bedroom that has become my adult bedroom, with no changes done to it except for my dog. He has a bed in the center of the room even though he sleeps on my bed or laundry. I am in my room in a fit of defiance against my parents. As a child, one might be sent to his room for mouthing off or having “too much attitude Noah Joseph!!”, like my middle name ever scared me, but as an adult I go to my room to show them that I don’t need to take their crazy ways, nonsense, and constant bitching. I will give them the ultimate sentence, I will take away my awesomeness and wait for them to come crawling back to me. They will say, “Oh Noah, we’re so sorry. Please tell us about your day. Oh, you are so interesting and we are such complete assholes.”

I have been doing this for 3 days and nothing.

I was in the living room when they came home, thinking that I would be the adult and move things along, start fresh, and continue life, but no. They are still the same assholes they were the day before. The day before I made a German Chocolate cake for a dinner with Grandma and Grandpa that I would not be attending, there was a cliff to be jumped off of with my name all over it. Anyways, I made the cake, I am a very good cook, but as I poured the batter into the baking dish, it wouldn’t even out; I blame the 5 cent cake mix. It looked like a wavy field of wheat, with hills and valleys all over it, and would not flatten out. I thought that maybe it would bake out flat, it did not. I iced it, did the best I could and left Mom a note:

Mom,

I am so sorry about the cake. I thought it would even out like brownie batter, but it didn’t. I’m sure it still tastes fine. Though, if it does not taste fine you can go downstairs and get some Lego men and play “all terrain adventure”.

With this note and the valleys of the cake having a strong resemblance to unleavened bread, and that that might appeal to a religious woman, I thought it was no problem. Clearly I was wrong.

“Hi Mom, how was dinner”

“Fine.”

“Ok, what did Grandma and Grandpa have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Sigh “What did you do to the cake?!?!?!”

“Are you seriously bitching at me because of a cake that I made for YOUR dinner?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! It just baked like that!”

No appreciation, no appreciation at all. Dad comes home everyday and asks me when the dogs were taken out last. I could 10 hours or 10 minutes. He will take off his jacket while he’s asking me and then put it back on and take the dogs outside. BITCH, I JUST DID IT.
The other day, just to make a kamikaze attempt at a conversation, I told Dad that I had gotten up at 10:30.

Sigh “That’s pretty late.”

“Well Dad, I usually don’t go to bed until 2 or 3.”

Sigh “Well that’s pretty late too.”

“I’m just not tired at night.”

“Well, that’s cause you’re not waking up until 10 or 11 in the morning.”

“Well, that’s cause I’m not going to bed until 2 or 3.”

“That’s too late.”

“Well, when I didn’t wake up until 10 or 11 it’s not really that late.”

“Well then, you should go to bed earlier.”

“But I’m not tired, and I’m only sleeping 8 hours.”

It continued on like this for a few minutes. It was like some fucked up version of “Who’s on First?”. Last week the palms of my hands were very dry and peeling for no reason. I don’t do manual labor, use weird chemicals; I had no idea why they were peeling. I had almost settled on the conclusion that in my odd hours of sleep I was going into my parent’s bedroom and taking turns strangling each of them in hope to start living the glamorous life of an orphan. That dream was put to rest as I was talking to one of my friends on the phone and she said that when people are really stressed out their hands dry out and peel. If that’s the truth, I should be leaving full body Noah-shaped skin shells around the house on a daily basis.

And lastly, this is a real conversation that happened last night while we were watching Grey's Anatomy. Mom was looking at a holiday magazine:

Me: "I need to get one of those razor blade shear things for Graham's fur. It gets more hair out than brushing and it cuts down on shedding."

Mom: "Well, you can always put it on your Christmas list."

Me: "Ug, I am not even looking forward to Christmas."

Thinking about the holidays, anniversary, birthdays.

Me: "I just want to slip into a comma and wake up in April."

Mom: "...............Well, someone will need to make your car payment."

I gave her a look that would have let any sane person know that that was not the response I was looking for.

Mom: "...........Well, we can't keep paying it forever."

I couldn't make her up if I tried.

This really happened.

This entry is dedicated to Stacy Rogers

This is a real conversation that happened with me and my parents during and after dinner last night. Indeed, feel sorry for me.

(Before dinner, Mom, Noah, Graham-Scottie, and Spike-Boston Terrier are in the kitchen getting things ready.)

Me: Do you need help cutting potatoes?

Mom: Uh, sure.
(she walks past Graham)
Pee-yoo, dog! You stink! You need to get a bath! (All yelled)

Me: Don't yell at my dog.

Mom: What?

Me: Don't yell at him. If you want me to give him a bath say, "Noah, I think you should give Graham a bath tomorrow." Seriously he has no control over that.

Mom: Whatever! (like she's 13 or something)

(10 min passes, I don't talk to her, she feels bad about yelling at my dog, The Simpsons is on)

Mom: Bert sounds funny. Huh, he looks a lot like his dad. Doesn't he? They look a lot alike.

Dad: Well, yeah, they're related.

Mom: Well, what about that one with the blue hair ( pointing at Milhouse) Are they related? They're all yellow.

Dad: No Emily, his name is Bart.

Mom: Huh? What? Oh, Jake took me and Susie to Missouri to get cheep gas and then we went to the town where the Popeye author lives. There's a statue there- for Popeye, not the author. Did you know they based the movie on the town where he lives.

Me: You mean the Popeye movie with Robin Williams? The one that was set in a fisherman's village on the ocean? Not in Missouri. I don't think so.
Mom: What?

(an Obama commercial comes on, we watch TV during dinner to avoid Mom from talking about kindergartners with disabilities)

Me: I like Obama. He's like a new JFK. He's pretty and most importantly not an idiot.

Mom: Oh, once your grandfather heard that Obama was running for the Democrats, he said there was no way he was voting for a black man, so now he's voting McCain..........

Me: Well, that's not very wise.

Mom: Well, I always vote Republican. I would just hope that the Democrats could have picked someone less controversial.

Me: What do you mean?

Mom: Well, it's, with him, the fact that he's.....I don't even know how to have a conversation with you! I'm tired.

(after I was done screaming in my head, Dad was vacuuming the sunroom by hand with a Dustbuster (!), my dog-Graham hates vacuums)

Dad: Huh, he really doesn't like this.
( he chases my dog with the Dustbuster)
He tried to attack it!

Me: Well, it scares him.
(he continues to chase him with the Dustbuster)

Dad: He tried to hit the button!

Mom: What? Oh! How does he even know what it is? Noah, do you have a Dustbuster?

Me: He looked it up online.

Mom: What? Huh? Well, When I took them outside this morning, wow, your dog pees a lot. It's like 4 quarts. It takes like 5 minutes. Oh, and man do they not want to poop in front of eachother. Spike doesn't want to poop in front of him and Grah....

Me: I get it. Thanks, I understand.

Now this may not seem funny to you, but when you think of of all of the miscommunication and factor in that it all happened in real time, and the fact that no alcohol was involved- it's very funny......in a "oh, God take me now" type of way. And it happens everyday.