My parents are trying to move.
They would like to go to a beach town, but since they are both (retired) public school teachers, their housing options in a nice seaside area are limited to living in a box behind a gas station, or a tiny old shack from 1860.
Any NORMAL person could get excited over ONE of those options… but it has been revealed to me that I was born to people who do not understand that comfort is secondary to visual appeal and historic detail.
Despite my VERY BEST EFFORTS, they are probably going to end up in some visual-atrocity from 1980 and I am embarrassed to publicly associate myself with such aesthetic barbarians.
They keep saying things like: but Victoria! The house you like has no roof! The house you like has no floor! The house you like has no heat!
How can I even be expected to TALK to people like that?
JUST WEAR A LOT OF LAYERS!
Nearly every weekend for an eternity, Paul and I have been driving to different shore towns to tour an endless parade of houses which everyone ELSE is considering, that I am NOT considering… interspersed with houses I have DEMANDED be considered, that NO ONE ACTUALLY CONSIDERS.
I can only imagine this is how Eratosthenes felt whilst trying to convince the Ancient Greeks that the world was not flat.
LISTEN TO ME! Imbeciles!
LOOK AT THAT SINK! The vintage cabinets! WHO DOES NOT SEE THE MAGNIFICENCE OF THIS? Why is my mother resisting the perfection? WHY???????
Incase you have not experienced house shopping with your parents, let me tell you that there is NOTHING like driving slowly up and down streets, trapped in a car with the people who are MOST LIKE YOURSELF and yet UTTERLY INTOLERABLE to make you consider the possibility that maybe it is not too late to put yourself up for adoption.
Every Saturday, I promise myself that I will not regress to irritable teenager who cannot believe the stupidity she is forced to endure… then as soon as we get in the car, I’m like– NOPE! Go right ahead.
Everyone immediately begins being their most perfect irritating selves… no reason to pretend otherwise for even five seconds.
After nine hours of looking at houses in their price range; covering the spectrum from hideous, to grotesque, to AMAZING-PERFECTION-LACKING-ONLY-PLUMBING-AND-ELECTRICITY… I am reliably foaming at the mouth with repressed childhood rage and the wish to inject myself with pure meth.
Last weekend was particularly bad, and Paul could see that I was on the edge of a psychotic break… he said— do you want me to shoot you with the dart gun?
Other than that though, we are all really enjoying ourselves!
My brothers have been missing out on all the car-party festivities, so I give them live-action updates.
I want to be sure that they understand that they are forever indebted to my selflessness in being the ONLY CHILD who cares enough to live nearby.
And also demonstrate to them the specifics of HOW MOM AND DAD ARE DRIVING ME INSANE.
Anyway, my point is that my parents have the WORST priorities of anyone I’ve ever met and it’s not gotten any better with this house-shopping because they keep spouting crazy nonsense about needing a bedroom for all of the children.
Who cares if my brothers have to sleep in the shed when they come to visit?
I mean, how do we even know that they wouldn’t PREFER it!?
LIKE A GUEST HOUSE!
A seamless transition to the futility of human existence.
The real problem with whatever house my parents buy, is that it’s where they will spend their last years.
I have been planning to fix this… through advancements in science? Magic? The mental-denial-olympics I have perfected?
Unfortunately, I’m starting to question the efficacy of any of these strategies.
The one person I am MOST TERRIFIED of losing is my mom. (Actually, she is tied with Paul, but that totally invalidates this thesis I am building here, and theoretically you CAN get a new husband, but you cannot get a replacement mom.)
My mother would quite literally move the pyramids, one stone at a time, (all alone, without complaint) if her children needed her to.
That’s not a metaphor. If it needed to happen, she would do it.
I love my father as much as I love my mom. But us kid’s relationship with him is different; he is not the person we depend on.
1. My father would bail us out of jail, but the disapproving silence on the drive home would be deafening.
2. My mother would help us hide the body, and then she would make us snacks.
OK! NOW THIS POST IS OVER!
I had intended to have some kind of reassuring conclusion… but I am very busy and important and will have to finish tackling the human condition another time.
I have to go put the final touches on my GFP (Giant Fancy Presentation)… the flaming baton twirling is coming along nicely! It’s way easier than it looks! But the high kicks are still giving me some trouble with my impractical choice of footwear.
Can’t wait to meet some of you! BUT DO NOT TRY TO BUY ANYTHING I AM INTERESTED IN.
See you Sunday!
LET ME HELP YOU WASTE MORE TIME!