Optimum Distance from Parents is 2500 Miles

They've been here for only 12 hours and they're already driving me crazy. Last night, it was, “Haven't you gotten rid of that dog yet? She's a monster,” about Cleo, who isn't monstrous at all. Yes, she barks at strangers, but she STOPS once she figures out they're invited, and yes, she's overly affectionate, but my parents are failing to comprehend that, “She'll calm down if you ignore her,” doesn't mean they should talk to Zorro for three minutes and then look at Cleo and say, “You aren't calm yet.”

This morning, I was awakened by my mother's search for an iron. Now, I do love my mother very much, but she is a compulsive ironer. The woman irons t-shirts and pajamas, and I swear I caught her ironing socks once. Well, maybe not. And searching for an iron is no big deal, really (I remember seeing it, but we've been rearranging everything and I don't know where it is, most of my clothes don't require ironing). So I was awakened by her outside my door going, “Xenobia, Xenobia,” (well, no she was using Mom-ified endearments based on my real name, but if you think I'm typing them…well…never mind). Knocking, I suppose, which would have actually awakened me to the point of having brain functionality before coffee, was somehow beyond her capabilities.

There are suitcases everywhere, not stacked, just…everywhere, and the ironing board is still in the middle of the computer room, and none of the coffee mugs were rinsed, and these are the same people who are anal to the extreme about doing dishes at their house.

This shouldn't surprise me, though, because my parents are the same people who don't train their dog, and suddenly expect that she will know what “sit” and “stay” mean when they are visiting away from home.

I fear the day they have grandchildren.
I fear my sanity knowing that my mother will be working out of my office this week.


Yeah, that felt better.