(I’ll write one of these posts in earnest on my Patreon soon, complete with links and pub dates–this one is mostly for fun!)
We had a birthday party for Chicken this week, which everybody made a big deal about since she didn’t really let us do anything for her when she graduated. Because she wanted to be comfy and cozy, we ended up with thirteen people in our teeny tiny living room, eating Chinese food and having riotous conversation. This included my parents, who rarely if ever come to my house because I’m pretty sure the mess–and the deterioration–makes them absolutely batshit crazy.
So when my dad excused himself to use the bathroom, Mate and I braced ourselves.
He returned trying not to look appalled.
“Was that a… uhm… hole in the floor under that mats?”
“Well, yeah–I mean, it’s not through the sub flooring yet, but, uhm, yeah.”
He made a manly attempt not to flail. “Aren’t you afraid of falling through that?”
“Yes,” I said. “Mate is fully aware it’s a possibility.”
“Have you thought about getting that fixed?”
Only every day for the last twelve years. “Of course we have,” I say. “I offer to call in contractors, and Mate says he’ll absolutely do it after soccer season.”
My dad looks at Mate, who has a stoic look on his face–he’s known this has been coming and he was fully prepared to get thrown under the bus. “So what happened?”
“Soccer season is from August to July,” I tell him, and he looks from my face to Mate’s to see if I’m joking.
As you all know, I am not.
“So what do you plan to do?”
“Well,” I say, “One day, while Mate is at a soccer game, I’m going to fall through the flooring and bleed out, alone in my own home, up to my waist in dry-rot, with my phone mere inches away from my reaching hand.”
My father is horrified. “That’s a plan?”
“Sure.”
And the conversation gets coopted by somebody else.
Later, Youngest wants to know what the conversation was about, so I tell him. “Wow, Mom–you sure do have a lot of plans for how you’re going to go out. Face down on your keyboard working a deadline, falling through the bathroom floor–and the dogs have been trying to kill you for years. Shouldn’t you plan on life?”
“I do plan on life! But this way, I have fun guessing what’s going to get me first–the fat, the dogs, or the bathroom floor.”
“Just try to make sure Dad’s the one who finds you.”
“Roger that.”
Seriously, my money’s on face first on the keyboard, but that’s just me.
