I had been in my own house roughly three months, maybe a little more. I've yet to put my stamp on it, to make it mine - I'd only just painted, there was no art, little furniture, the landscaping and yard work months away in the spring. It's a shell, a work in progress at best.
Then my father moves in for a week to recuperate after an operation.
You would think I was staying with them, not them staying with me. I watch little to no TV as my parents are ensconced in living room. I cannot cook as my mother has taken the kitchen. They control the heat or cooling depending on their whims. I am an errand boy at best, eating alone in my unfurnished kitchen as they watch FOX news. My mother criticizes my housekeeping and occasionally my clothing selection. My father, as he is prone to do, gives sage bits of advice at what can only be described as inopportune moments.
I love my parents, but thank god it is only a week to ten days.
Barkeep. Everclear. Straight. I just need to make it a little bit longer.