ALONE. IN MY OWN HOUSE.
|Ya feel lucky, punk?|
What's more, my master bedroom closet is still a thing of beauty and a joy to behold. Granted, there are 3 large bins of orphaned stuff that are sitting in my bedroom, but they are NOT IN THE CLOSET. That is all that matters to me right now.
Particularly since we got rid of the broken closet door and rashly chose not to replace it...you know, sometimes Larry and I are just a couple of crazy kids at heart. Crazy, idealistic kids...
By the way, you know what sucks about living with teens? I mean, among other things? You are constantly aware of how old you look to them. OLD. You try to get your teen to watch a funny video on YouTube and realize that the look on his face is the same look you had when your parents made you watch Bob Hope with them. You make a joke and see your teen wince and realize that you are now making corny, old people jokes. You pretend that you were sounding corny ON PURPOSE, but you know better. What's worse, your teen knows better. You have flashes of remembering how wizened and ancient your own parents looked to you when you were yourself an adolescent, and a quick calculation reveals to you that they were, um, YOUNGER than you are now.
Do I need to go on? You know, it's too late for me, but if I had it to do over, I would have given some serious consideration to sending the kids to boarding school. Or maybe it's not too late. Maybe one of those Bags o' Cash and my new job can help pay for some respite from the disdaining looks I receive from the adolescents around here. Praise the Lord and pass the potato chips, will ya?