It’s 8:07. Dad says we had to be on the road before 8 to make it to the SuperGenius’s shower on time.
SuperGenius. I’m going to be late.
I realized just now that being with our family is a lot like constantly flipping channels on the TV except that sometimes the shows are aware of each other.
I’m in the bathroom and my mom is in the shower and she’s telling me some story about this story she likes–C.J. Banks and my dad and the Butcher are at the other end of the house talking about the recalcitrant brother when out of nowhere Dad both asks me a question about the computer and corrects mom’s story. Meanwhile, she adds something to what the Butcher is talking about and for no reason my dad starts hollering about how he’s going to let the dog eat someone’s toothbrush before too long.
Both of my brothers were told by their schools that they exhibited signs of ADD.
I don’t know how else you would keep up on everything going on here, especially with the chance that people are talking bad about you in the downstairs kitchen. A girl’s got to keep an ear open for that, no matter how exciting the conversation in the bathroom is.
So, we made it, finally. The new folks’ home is not much farther from Nashville than the old folks’ home, but someone was a little hung over and someone else was letting stinky farts and drooling all over the emergency brake, and so I was more than ready to get out of the car.
The folks’ new house is beautiful, a big old two story brick monstrosity with a huge front porch and huge windows. It kind of hurts my heart a little, as I’d love to live in a place that had this much character, and yet, I don’t see how that will ever happen.
…unless I can come up with some way to harness Exador’s ornriness and use it as an alternative fuel source and sell it to power-starved areas of the country…
Ah, sorry. A little slap happy here.
Dad has written his annual Christmas letter which he sends to everyone in our family and all our old church friends and it contains a paragraph that reads, in part:
She also writes a BLOG called “Tiny Cat Pants” which neither her mother or I are allowed to read. Although she is selling T-shirts with the logo on it which I am sure she would be glad to unload (I mean sell) to you. Everyone says she looks just like me and grandma Doris… I don’t know what Grandma Doris did to deserve this, she is such a good woman.
There are a lot of things I’d rather not happen. Up near the very top of those things is for my extended family and my dad’s church folks to start reading Tiny Cat Pants. Could you imagine how boring this place would become if I had to worry about what my dad’s parishoners thought of what I was writing here?