Sunday, November 18, 2012

Some Things Never Change II

I was right.

I had just finished writing when my dad called my sister, who happened to be down the hall from me at the time. He knows she can talk to me better than he can, so he was attempting to recruit her help.

Long story short, he wanted me to move back to Grandma's Hoarders house in the middle of nowhere. For some reason or another, I am not interested. Luckily, my sister has brains in her head and a voice that my father somehow listens to, and she talked him down.

Funny point: My dad didn't want me to move back so I'd be closer. My cousin and her husband intend to move into Grandma's house for the free rent, and he doesn't want them going through Grandma's stuff and stealing/selling/burning it all. He thought if I moved back in, I'd "keep them honest."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA *gasp* Hahaha... Good one.

*wipes away tears of mirth*

That place is a mess. Again, Hoarders-esque. After I left, a cat died in that house, and no one ever found it. But that's a minor detail. I don't care if they clean it out. Grandma doesn't care if they claim things as theirs, and I don't care either. I would not accomplish the purpose my father wished me to. The only reason I didn't clean the place out myself was because I couldn't do it alone, and while several people offered to help me, they never actually did. Somehow, they were always busy.

Then there's the little technicality that my cousin and her husband are big drinkers, and highly social. I have an eleven year old daughter. There is no way they could modify their personalities to enjoy living with a child, and no way I could force them to behave in a way that would make them ideal role models.

So lunch with my father was originally an attempt to butter me up and make me an offer he knew I wouldn't like. I probably would have gotten the "I'm not going to live forever" speech again, since he tends to drag that out every time I resist something. He's in his early 50's, by the way. If he doesn't kill himself with cigarettes, sugar, and pretending he's still 20, he could conceivably live a while.

Our lunch ended up pretty nice. There wasn't much to talk about, since his goal was out of the way, but the food was good. He wants something else from me now, but it would only ruin one day instead of my precarious sanity.

Anyhow, results are in. If you bet I was right, you get brownie points. If you bet I was paranoid, you get a mushy, half-eaten bowl of cereal.

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