Right after we watched the Emmys last night, we went to “the Down” (the bedroom downstairs) and watched Mom have a tantrum about not finding her 800 thread count pillow case.
She had just taken all the sheets out of the dryer and was struggling with the gigantic sheets, whipping them in the air like giant boat sails and yelling. I have no idea why she had to wash the sheets on Emmy night-- I guess the washer and dryer kill the fleas or something.
Mom: “How can I lose a pillow case from the bedroom to the laundry room? WHERE IS IT?!
Dad was depressed about the Emmys and picking his face in the 10X magnifying mirror in the bathroom.
Mom: “Can’t you HELP me find the pillow case!?”
Dad came out of the bathroom with a red nose from all the picking. “Jesus! I don’t give a fuck about the pillow case. Do we have to do it tonight? Don’t worry about it.”
Mom: “That’s what you say about everything in this house-- ‘don’t worry about it’ and that’s why everything is so fucking DISORGANIZED!”
Finn and I were trying to find a cozy spot in the bed but she kept ripping all the sheets off, looking for the damned pillow case, so we couldn’t get cozy at all. We just sat on the floor. The floor! Emmy night was turning out to be bad—really bad. Then she found the pillow case inside another pillow case.
Mom: (sheepishly) “I double bagged. I put a pillow case on a pillow and then put another pillow case on top of that.”
Finally, she made the goddamned bed and we were able to get comfy on the comforter. Mom and Dad both got into their spots and Dad pulled the covers way up over his head.
Dad: “I’m all pimply. I’m a pimply old man. I’m going to go to a pitch with a face full o’ pimples. Why would a network give a show to a man who has a face full of pimples?”
Mom: “Would you STOP? Why do you care about the Emmys? You have two! You want another one?”
Dad: “No, I know what a chocolate covered banana that is for the monkeys out there.”
I was trying to sleep but that Stupid Kitty started scratching around in her litter box. She makes a hell of a lot of noise, pawing away at those stinking “pearls” that absorb all of her super-pungent piss. She scrapes the "pearls" from one side of the stinking box to the other side, and then does it again--for cleanliness. She really does stink up the entire Down. Even though Stupid Kitty's litter box is in the laundry room, it's still only a feeble ball toss away from the bed.
Honestly, I don't know why Mom has the Stupid Kitty's bathroom right in front of the dryer, where the clean sheets come out. I'd rather have fleas in the sheets than those goddamned piss pearls.
I like to sleep to the sound of Mom and Dad’s voice. It doesn’t matter what they say—it’s soothing.
Dad: “I’m a loser.”
Mom: “If you’re a loser, what does that make me?”
Dad: “You’re a loser too. Even the dogs are losers. We had to get them out of the garbage. They were thrown away before we got them. We’re stuck in a loser death clutch.”
Then Mom and Dad laughed like hyenas. I don't ever think I've seen them laugh so hard.They are truly crazy, those two.