Tilt A Whirl Hell

Our vacation got off to a smooth start, by which I mean: we managed to take the dogs to the kennel and then leave on the same day we intended to. It’s important to appreciate the small achievements as well as the big ones.

We drove throughout the day, or, I should say, the charming husband drove throughout the day and I played with my iPad, napped, read random road signs, provided a running commentary on the landscape, and did my very best to make charming husband’s vacation a delightful journey. He may scoff at that description, but since I’m the one writing, I get to say what I want.

We stopped in Spokane for the night, mostly because it’s a convenient place to stop.

Let me back up. Here’s the thing. I’ve been meaning to schedule a trip to Montana to visit my stepfather, but since I have a history of eventful journeys I was a bit hesitant. For three of the last four trips the following has happened: I ran into a deer, crippling it and making me cry; I blew a tire in Spokane, on the freeway, on a Sunday when nothing was open; and so on the last trip I took the train, figuring I’d at least be safe that way.

And so the last trip my knee went completely bonkers, and I was unable to walk without pain.

This time, charming husband said he’d come along, and we’d make a vacation out of it. He acts all nice and everything, but I know he just didn’t want to come get me out of the hospital or jail this trip.

Anyway. So we stopped in Spokane without incident, and the next day we went to Silverwood, a theme park in Idaho.

Charming husband loves theme parks. Disneyland is his favorite of course, but Silverwood has roller coasters and is on the way to Montana, so it fit our needs well.

After our last trip to Silverwood I swore off roller coasters, but I’m happy to wander around while he amuses himself on them.

It was a beautiful day in Idaho. Sunny blue skies, warm but not overly hot, slightly breezy, just the kind of Labor Day weekend we always hope for but never get. Shortly after arriving at Silverwood, before we’d done anything other than wander around, we came upon the Tilt A Whirl.

I grew up on Tilt A Whirls. Every year there was a carnival in the local park, and the Tilt A Whirl was a standard, as it has been for many years in many places. When asked, I said, 

“Sure, let’s go on it.”

We stood in line underneath the warm sun, watching the little kids get more and more excited the closer they got to getting on the ride, and even though I felt a twinge of trepidation, I decided it was silly, and at last it was our turn. (It wasn’t that long of a wait, but I’m trying to inject some suspense.) I joked with the attendant that I was escorting charming husband so he could go on the ride. Poor husband puts up with a lot from me.

We sat in our car, and the ride started, and wasn’t that fun? Just like the Tilt A Whirl of yore, back when I was smaller and lithe and not on enough medications to kill a horse, if one wanted to kill a horse by overmedicating said horse. Not that I’m overmedicated, but I’m certainly well medicated.

And as we spun around I started to feel something other than nostalgia start up in my stomach. Innocent harmless butterflies at first, the sudden empty feeling that lets me know that trouble is headed my way, and then, as we kept circling and spinning and whizzing around, I prayed for the ride to stop. Despite my normally heathen nature, despite times call for desperate measures.

It didn’t stop, it just kept going around and around, and the butterflies turned into moths, and then into dragons, and if you’ve never had dragons roaring through your stomach, lucky you, and I hope you never do. I put my hand over my mouth in what I knew would be a futile attempt at containing what was coming up, but I had to try, didn’t I? I kept my hand stuck over my mouth, and as my mouth filled with what had earlier been breakfast (I assume), we kept spinning.

As we whipped past the attendant she asked if I was okay. Or so I’ve been told, I was focused on not spilling my guts as we whirled because that would definitely be a disaster. I could picture it, as I held it in, vomit spewing in slow motion as we continued to spin, a toxic waste dump that could contaminate everyone we flew by, or past, or anyone who followed.

The Tilt A Whirl, that demon ride, started to slow, and as it started to slow I started to retch, and as it came to a stop I threw up everything in my mouth into my hands, making a special effort not to get any on myself.

So there I was, vomit in my hands, and on me, and feeling like I could do it again, easily, with no provocation at all, and the attendant gave us a disposable towel, something they probably keep on hand for those riders who underestimate their abilities, and I emptied my hands into it. Everyone else was off the ride by the time I managed to stand up and wobble to the exit, where I promptly bent over so I could retch into the pretty foliage.

Poor charming husband, trying to take care of me, so worried.

“I need a restroom,” I said, “And I need it now.”

Or, alternatively, “Get me the hell out of here.”

I don’t really remember.

After I cleaned myself up and got some water, I told charming husband to go ride some coasters, and I would sit on the grass in the shade under the trees, and then I insisted he go, since I hadn’t gone through all this only for him to miss the roller coasters, since he was focused on how I felt instead of what he was supposed to focus on, which was Having Fun.

So he went, and I laid down on the grass, at the top of a grassy knoll, where I could have a good view of anyone coming my way, and I closed my eyes.

I stayed that way for a long time. I moved to get up once, but my stomach didn’t want to come along, so I stayed until I felt human again.

It happens eventually, the returning to a human state.

I don’t know if it’s the massive quantities of meds I’m currently taking, but charming husband is leaning in that direction. Could be – I used to never throw up, and I’m starting to make a habit of it. (By which I  mean, that was the second time this year, and we still have the last part of the year to go.)I once had a vomit free streak of like 10 years, and not that I was proud of it, but I never ever throw up. So I used to say. I think my stomach has just had enough of a lifetime of abuse and has decided to fight back.

Whatever it is, the Tilt A Whirl has taken on the patina of a demon, and I shall never get on one again.

We continued our vacation, and since then it’s proceeding as it should, by which I mean, there has been no more public vomiting. Yay me!

Walking Past Dragons

At 4 this morning, which is not a time I typically associate with morning, but more with middle-of-the-night, my dog Ash decided he needed to go outside. He communicates this to me by standing by my side of the bed and making a very slight whimpering noise, the kind of noise no one else can hear, particularly my charming husband, who keeps sleeping. But I, I always hear the whimpering of the Ash. I opened one eye and looked at him, which wasn’t easy in the dark, since he’s black and the room was, at 4 am, black, but I could make out two intent eyes looking at me and waiting for a response.

He only does this when he really needs to go out. He’s not a difficult dog otherwise, normally sleeping all night through like a rock, or a log, or some other inanimate object used to express the idea.

“All right, I’m coming,” I said, and I climbed out of the security of my comfortable bed and the two of us stumbled downstairs, me stumbling more than he, and I let him out into the backyard.

I don’t know what he does out there at 4 am, though I can guess, but the truth is, I don’t really care, as long as he’s quiet about it.

He came back to the door, I let him in, and we stumbled back up the stairs. I headed straight for bed, and had just gotten myself all comfy when Ash was there again, at the side of the bed, with a whimper, and I said, “Now what?”

He whimpered again. This isn’t rocket science, figuring out what a whimpering dog is saying. The only other thing it could be was the dragon in the bathroom.

The dragon in the bathroom is a perennial issue with Ash the Wonder Dog. During the daytime we refer to her as Honey, the Chow Golden Retriever who is also Ash’s best buddy, the older dog he doesn’t hesitate to jump on when he wants to play. But during the night, when she’s sleeping, or anytime she’s between him and something he wants, whether it’s water or a ball or me, she’s an immovable scary object.

“Okay, I’m coming,” I told him, and I climbed out of my, yes, comfortable bed and we walked into the bathroom so I could escort him past the sleeping dragon. Honey, the dragon, didn’t move. Now that she’s half deaf she doesn’t hear us approaching, which means I must be extra careful not to startle her. She doesn’t like being startled. Would you?

But we walked past her carefully, and she stirred enough to almost lift her head, but that was all. It’s not as if she cares if Ash wanders by and has some water. She’s pretty okay with him doing what he wants to do, but he still thinks that she really CARES and would object, even though she has never once attacked him for walking by her. Not once! Occasionally, just because she can, she’ll give out a tiny little growl, as if she would do more if she really cared, if she weren’t so darn lazy, and so he believes his concern is justified.

I do that with my own dragons. They don’t care if I walk by them to get to where I’m going, but I keep thinking they’re going to reach out and snap my head off, or cut me down to size (whatever that means) or somehow make me sorry I ever bothered. They’re not even fearsome dragons! But still, I let them control me.

After Ash drinks his fill I escort him back past the dragon, who has gone back to sleep, or at least seems to be unconcerned with the people and dogs traipsing past her.

I get back in my comfortable bed, and so does Ash, who decides to sleep on the extra pillow I keep above my head for him. He falls right to sleep while I ponder dragons, and how they mostly don’t care what we do. Yet we, or me in particular, for I don’t know your dragons, look at them as if they’re large immovable annoying objects, sent to bedevil me and stop my progress, here to stop me from doing whatever it is I want to do. All I really need to do is walk past the damn things and get on with it.

Ash needs an escort to get past his dragon. And I have escorts to get past mine. There are people who help me with my dragons, who guide me past them in ways I couldn’t imagine. Sometimes I’ll walk right past a dragon all on my own, because I’m learning that it’s possible and that my head won’t explode if I do.

I do try to avoid heads exploding at all times. It’s messy and irritates bystanders.

We all have dragons, though they often turn out to be no more than elderly furry half-deaf dogs who don’t care that we go tromping past them in the dark of night. Or something similar. We can get past them with the help of our friends, and we can get past them all on our own. We don’t need to slay the dragon, unless it’s breathing fire and ready to eat us, we can just walk past them on our way to somewhere else.

Looking at Mental Illness from THEIR POV

 

Just read another story from someone with a loved one with mental illness, and again I hear the same story: His illness is no excuse to act the way he does, nor to treat people badly.

Of course it isn’t. But I always wonder, did anyone take the time to ask HIM about his point of view?

Too often I see the mentally ill told to straighten up, do what society expects, stop acting all crazy, and could you please, while you’re at it, be nice? These are all reasonable requests, as long as we refrain from defining “acting all crazy,” since it can cover a wide variety of things, some of which even the sanest of us participate in.

Buying bottled water, for example. It’s crazy, when you think about it, and when you know that tap water can be better for you, and cost a lot less, but we do it anyway. At least some of us.

I’ve come to the realization that I’m one of the sanest people you’ll ever meet. However, that doesn’t mean that when I’m talking to someone who’s mentally ill I’ll proclaim my superior sanity and tell them to just act like me. Instead, I’ll ask them what they think. I’ll want them to tell me about their delusions, though I won’t call them delusions, and I’ll want to know how they see things.

With my ex-Stew-who-was-mentally-ill (for those of you who haven’t followed the story and haven’t read the book yet), I talked to him. I didn’t just tell him what was going on in the real world, but I asked him about what was going on in his world. I treated his views, as irrational as they seemed to me, as if they were real. Because you know what? To him, that was reality. Telling him to join me in my reality didn’t mean anything to him because he couldn’t see it.

I don’t mean buy into their world. You can’t follow them down that path, at least not far. It doesn’t help them, and it doesn’t help you understand them. And sometimes no matter how much you ask, it won’t make sense to you. It can’t, anymore than what you see can make sense to them. But that’s not the most important thing. The most important thing is that you are relating to them on a level that’s equal. By asking about their world, you let them know you care what goes on in it.

I’ve met people who don’t want to know what’s going on in someone else’s world. “It’s not real, they just need to snap out of it.” Always helpful advice, the just-snap-out-of-it. It’s like telling someone with a broken leg to just walk on the damn thing and they’ll be fine in no time.

But often it matters to them. It matters that someone cares enough to ask. With Stew, we could have these sorts of dialogues, so he could tell me what was going on and I would take it seriously, but I could also remind him that, “You remember, don’t you, that we talked about how only you can see this, and no one else?” And he could remember, usually (not always, I’m not a miracle worker) that his world view was not necessarily the world view I had, or anyone else had. It was distinctly his, but he was welcome to talk about all he wanted, because if you can’t talk about your crazy world with anyone, you’re going to hold onto it even tighter so you don’t lose it.

Even if it’s a sad dark world, it’s still the only world you have, and why give that up? How can you when you can’t see anything else?

Maybe, just maybe, if you take them seriously, instead of insisting they conform to a standard they don’t understand, they might take you seriously. They might come to understand that you’re not the enemy, at least not all the time. Sometimes you’ll still be the enemy, but perhaps just by listening you can become safe, someone they don’t have to fear is going to tell them, yet again, that they’re crazy and could they just listen to reason?

And maybe not. Maybe it’s all for nothing. Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is to disengage. Sometimes, though, if you try, you can find that disengaging isn’t necessary after all. I tried with Stew. I tried with everything I had, and I was rewarded with his lasting friendship and his support, which are no small things. I was also rewarded with being able to talk him off the ledge when he was on it, which happened more than I would have thought possible. He listened to me even when the voices in his head were telling him not to, because he knew I was listening to him, and not just talking at him. I knew his fears, and I knew his hopes, and I knew, usually, how best to reach him.

Not always. But enough.

Sometimes enough is the best we can do.

Honey Has Been Healed!

Last night we attended a church revival down by the railroad tracks. Crowds of people were clamoring to see the prophet, as were we. I have a fondness for prophets. It was a noisy crowd, but Honey was unfazed, since she couldn't hear them anyway. She did appear to be considering the possibility of biting those closest to us, but whatever. We sat through two sermons, one by a 10 year old child preacher who admonished us to tithe freely in order to secure our eternal salvation, three intermissions so we could buy hot dogs and popcorn, and two interludes of a 12 year old soprano singing first Amazing Grace and then The Battle Hymn of the Republic. The first was okay, the second was wretched.

At last the prophet himself appeared, and said, "I am here to heal the sick, comfort the sick at heart, and collect your money!" This was all in a loud booming voice, except by the end the crowd was screaming hysterically to be saved and most of them may have missed the money part. We had to wait our turn of course. This healing thing is apparently a sort of individual process. If the prophet is as powerful as he would like us to believe, couldn't he just wave his fairy wand over the crowd and say, "There, all done." But no, we were given a number, for which we paid a donation, and made to stand in line behind the makeshift stage.

The first healing was a 42 year old accountant who was complaining of bunions. "You are healed!" the prophet said, and smacked him in the head, causing said accountant to fall backward, where he then hit his head and was knocked unconscious. Guys in black t-shirts rushed on stage and carted him off, and then the next, a clown who was sad. And by clown, I mean a clown, in full clown regalia, with a sad drawn on face and the barest hint of rum on his person. "You are healed!" said the prophet, knocking the clown to the ground, and the clown's sad drawn on face didn't change at all, but I'm pretty sure he was no longer sad. Or would be, once he regained
consciousness. Then a scullery maid, who was suffering from steam burns, who was also knocked unconscious, no doubt so her burns could heal. This went on for half an hour, or an hour, or some period of time that lost all meaning.

Then it was Honey's turn. "If you smack my dog I'll kill you," I said to the prophet. "Just fix her hearing."

"It'll cost you extra," the prophet said, "If I can't smack her. That, and she's a dog, if you haven't noticed."

"Really?" I responded. "I knew there was something different about her. Just get on with it, will ya?"

"If I must," he said, "But I must insist on cash or a cashiers check first. Or Visa. Or MasterCard. We minister to those of all faiths."

"Fine," I grumbled, as I handed over my last few dollars.

"We'll bill you for the rest then. This isn't nearly enough."

I have a mailing address I use for these purposes, so I gave him that. Said mailing address is halfway to Timbuktu, and there's no address there, much less a there there, so I imagine a pile of mail has been collecting there for quite a while. Another bill or two wouldn't matter much.

"Dog, you are healed!" the prophet bellowed, and Honey snapped at him.

Wouldn't you, if a prophet was bellowing at you? Well, true, Honey couldn't hear him, but she got the general idea.

We left the stage as a midget desiring to be tall entered from stage left, but we didn't hang around to see what would happen next. 

After we got home I said to Honey, "Honey? Can you hear me?"

I could tell she couldn't because she made no sign of hearing me. Which is not to say my dog can sign. That'd just be weird.

But this morning she came into my office, and was snapping at me, which is her way of saying, "Can you let me outside now please?"

I turned around in my comfy desk chair and said to her, "Do you want to go outside?"

She responded by barking and jumping up and down, if a dog can jump up and down. Then Ash, who'd been loitering in the doorway, started barking and jumping up and down.

I kept talking to her, and she kept responding as if she could hear what I was saying. Then again, it's hard to tell with a dog. We went into the hallway and I had Andrew call her, and she looked at him, then went to him.

The dog can hear.

After I let them outside I went back upstairs and called out the back upstairs window to Honey. She stopped what she was doing, which was sniffing grass, and looked up, then around. She wasn't quite sure where I was calling her from, but she knew someone was calling her.

I could have just said that the vet had said she might regain some of her hearing once the infection cleared up and the ear gunk was cleaned out from the drops he'd had us giving her, but that doesn't make for such a good
story, does it?

A Good Holiday

You can tell I've had a good holiday when my burns are only first degree.

Fortunately I'm only a danger to myself. Others are safe around me, unless I trip and fall on them, but even then, there's usually a pretty good chance said others can jump out of the way before my full weight descends on them like a ton of bricks. The burns, on the top of my fingers of my left hand, are only slight red marks now, and the swelling isn't bad at all.

Not bad at all. This is my mantra for getting through things like scalding myself, cutting myself, and in general doing damage to myself. I have never broken a bone, but I'm thinking that's only because they're made of rubber.

So other than the whole burning thing, which was only a slight inconvenience and allowed me the opportunity to sit on the couch with my hand wrapped in ice and later aloe while charming husband put together the rest of dinner, life is good. Painful, at times, but what isn't that's worthwhile? (This is another of my mantras that I use to console myself with.)

Last night, which just happened to be some sort of holiday, I started to wonder when we'd moved to a war zone. It must have happened when I wasn't looking, because when looking for a house, I'm pretty sure I checked the option to be out of a war zone. Since I've never been in an actual war zone, only pretend ones, I have no idea what one sounds like, but I'm pretty sure I heard mortars going off, and air strikes, and explosions. I was also not aware that there are so many people around here. There must be, for all that noise to be going on. That, or we invited several other neighborhoods to join us for the festivities.

I'm hoping the fatalities were kept to a minimum.

Used to be, fireworks were a cause for concern around here. Honey does not like them. They hurt her ears, and it makes her upset. I'd be upset too if my ears hurt. But now that she's mostly deaf, she really doesn't care. Occasionally, when the racket was loud and long, she'd bark at it, as if to say, "Shut the hell up, will ya? I'm trying to sleep!" But it wasn't with the former panic she'd have when she was a hearing dog. It's not as if she could hear it all that well. And Ash, he doesn't care much, except for a particularly loud one that'll cause his head to pop up. He likes to sit next to me and burrow into me just in case though. Then again, he likes to do what when there's no sign of fireworks too, so I'm not sure it means anything.

I do have the best life. It's not just on holidays that I notice, but on holidays, no matter the reason, I give myself permission to slack off and do whatever I want, the sort of permission I'm loathe to give myself any other time. If you ask me, I should be doing something useful and productive all the time. Not that I do all the time, but I do heap guilt upon myself if I'm not productive. Not on holidays though. On holidays there's none of that.

Of course, I did do some work anyway yesterday, but it wasn't much, a couple of hours altogether. This was before the burn incident, when I could still move my fingers.

And today I can move them just fine again, so I better get back to work.
--

We're All Aging

Just some of us are doing it faster than others. Not me, of course. I retain the mind of a child, and no, I’m not going to follow that up with “in a jar on my desk,” though I’m sorely tempted. That should give one indication that I’m not aging gracefully.

One of my dogs, Honey, the charming half chow half retriever I’ve had for what seems like forever, is aging. So far, she’s been rather graceful about it. As graceful as a dog can be, anyway. Like me, she likes her sleep, and, also like me, she still likes to play. Ash, the four year old dog, can run circles around her, and me, but she doesn’t mind so much. She’ll wait until he’s exhausted himself and then pounce on him. She’s still the lead dog, the head honcho, the big kahuna, despite him now being slightly taller. In the middle of the night Ash will wake me up (by staring at me intently) so I can escort him past the big scary lump of dog standing between him and the water bowl. In the morning, as they rush down the stairs together, he jumps all over her, attempting to impede her progress and start play time, but when she’s between him and his food or water, he dares not cross her.

Yesterday when I got up I found Honey, as usual, sound asleep in the bathroom. She falls asleep on her dog bed at night, then during the night she decides the bathroom floor is a better place and moves. Sometimes after this happens Ash then gets off the bed, sometimes off the pillow we share since he’s lately decided he’d rather sleep at my head than my feet, and takes possession of the dog bed, but never while Honey’s around to see him do it.

And yes, I know, what kind of person lets a 60 pound dog sleep on their pillow? Well, now you know.

Honey wasn’t moving much, even when I called her name. No movement. I got closer. “Honey?”

Still nothing.

“Honey?”

Nothing.

So I reached down to pet her, and scared the crap out of her.

Not literally, obviously.

We’ve been testing her hearing ever since, and it’s sort of not there, at least not on one side. One day we have a perfectly healthy dog and the next day she’s deaf. She’s on antibiotics for an abscess in one ear flap and is getting twice a day ear drops, which she’s had before, but she’s never been so . . . deaf.

How can I keep telling my dog how wonderful she is if she can’t hear me? I do it anyway, because I’m not sure what she can hear and what she can’t, and I’m not taking any chances. I used to be able to say her name and her tail would wag, even if the rest of her wouldn’t move, but now, not so much.

This morning she raced downstairs with Ash, out to her favorite place, the back yard, where she could run around and lay in the grass, which is her favorite hobby. She acts like she’s fine, but when I went out to give her another antibiotic I had to go find her around the corner instead of calling her. She seemed to hear me when I got close, but it’s hard to tell when she’s not speaking to me.

Just for the record, my dog has never spoken to me, so this is nothing new.

She’s pretty healthy, overall, for a dog her age. Just two weeks ago the vet said so. Nothing wrong with her, other than that ear thing. I’m hoping to delay her aging process for a long time. Getting her a puppy four years ago helped – I’m certain she got younger when she had a puppy to keep up with.

(Perhaps as we age we should get younger companions since keeping up with them will keep us active? I covered that already by marrying my husband.)

We shower her with love and affection and play time. And in return, she doesn’t bite me when I startle her because she didn’t hear me coming. It’s a fair exchange. Beyond that, we don’t think about it. We’ve got too much present going on to think about the future.

A Book Awaits!

It’s been decided: the next nonfiction book-length project will be essays with family as the theme. The governing board thought this would suit me and let me stick with my strengths. The governing board, for those of you not in the know, is me. I can comprise an entire governing board all by myself because I’ve put on a few pounds in the last few years.

The governing board also laments the lack of my work ethic, but we’re working on a compromise: I won’t tell the governing board where to put their (mine) poorly thought out opinions and the governing board will stop hassling me to do Something That Matters. It’s a good compromise, as long as they stick with their end of the bargain.

Besides, as I like to tell the governing board from time to time, I am engaged in running a business at the same time in order to, y’know, make a living. The governing board scoffs at this, saying that if I were really industrious I’d be working nonstop from 6 am to 1 am, with five hours for sleep.

I counter with the idea that the governing board is not in touch with reality, and that if they’d just get off their high horses (which remind me of Trojan horses, for some reason), they’d understand that I’m also a person and not just a working machine.

Said governing board scoffs back. Etc. We’ve reached an uneasy truce, but I tell you, the board is in danger of getting fired if they veer off course again.

I love my family. Even the ones who can’t stand me. I chalk it up to me not being easily stood at times. Let’s face it, I am a bit of a prima donna. And tactless. I possess no social skills. I don’t remember them on their birthdays. I hardly ever invite them to my family reunions, mostly because I don’t have family reunions. Every family needs someone to look down on, and in my family I was it. I didn’t realize this at the time, I just thought no one liked me.

TURNS OUT I’m not completely unlikeable at all! Sure, my stepmom didn’t like me much, but that’s okay. I’m too much like my mother, and stepmom never cared for mom. Reviewing some of their correspondence from when I was young I can see why. I’m not sure I would have cared for either of them if I had been an adult and not an emotional ping pong ball.

(Note: Said correspondence is only that received from stepmom, since mom kept everything ever sent to her, and it all resides now at my house.)

I’m fairly certain that had any of my siblings had a choice, they would not have selected me for a sibling. But guess what! They had no choice! Hah!  When I first met one set of stepsiblings they openly made fun of me, while accepting my brother into their clan. And my older sister, who was the perfect older age to mentor the stepsister. My stepmother looked at me with no small measure of disgust and said, “Art, you let her go outside like that?”

Art is my dad, in case that wasn’t clear.

My stepmom’s disdain for my appearance/attitude/demeanor carried over into my real life, by which I mean the life outside of my family, but I’m totally grateful to have had a family who provides me so much material. Who needs the whole happy childhood thing when you can instead have things to talk about? Well, in my case, anyway. Hey, it works for me.

That whole hogwash about family being the one place that has to take you in? Hogwash. Family is what you make of it, and some families will take you in, even if you aren’t theirs, and some won’t, even if you are theirs. And some families have to kick you out, lest you spend your life lounging on mom and dad’s couch, which isn’t a good idea in most circumstances.

Ahh, family. I love them all. Doesn’t mean I won’t make fun of them now and then, but as far as I know they don’t actually read the things I write, so I think I’m good. Of course, since I’m compiling these into a book, you can’t read them until then. So sorry. It’ll do you good to wait a bit anyway.