I open my eyes to a cacophony of sounds.
I pull my new iPhone from under the pillow where I’ve hidden
it from the cat, blink my eyes at the time: 8:37 a.m.
I retreat further into my cloud bed; my time capsule of a
room has kept me safe thus far WHAT THE HELL IS ALL OF THAT NOISE!?
There are seriously layers upon layers of sounds right
outside of my bedroom door, with 2 of the layers INSIDE my room with me.
My pillow engulfs my head as I identify them: 24 years of
life – I expected these sounds.
I am quickly able to detect that my father is yes, vacuuming
while the Roomba stumbles its’ way around our obstacle ridden house like a
drunk man. By the sounds of it, the Roomba has trapped itself in my dad’s
closet, doing its best to blindly capture years of animal hair while inadvertedly
unearthing things probably best left alone. The Roomba was a Christmas gift to my parents
from my brother who probably rather wisely, decided not to come home this year.
Samir the cat will not ride the Roomba, which renders it useless in my mind.
But my parents now have 3 vacuum cleaners, and a twice-a-month house cleaner
who goes by the name of Janey. I know one thing about Janey: she must not do a
very good job because my parents still have 3 vacuum cleaners, and I think they
are all in use At This Very Moment.
My mother is in the
kitchen. I don’t’ think either of us know what she is doing but she is
non-stop. If she wore a pedometer, I believe it would tell her to sit down. The
tv is on like, 50 decibels, because it needs to be heard over both vacuum
cleaners plus the dishwasher, AND make it through 3 rooms so that I can hear it
in my dreams. I try to decipher if it’s Sunday Morning on CBS. That would be
worthy of getting up for right now. But it’s Saturday and I hear them say
something about “titans” and I retreat further.
Strangely, within the walls of my time capsule and from
under the cloud comforter on my bed, I can hear the tiny sighs of my dog
Mattie, whom I’ve trapped in my room with me out of love. I am jealous of her
old age deafness right now. She is sleeping VERY peacefully.
Outside, one of the 4 dogs that my parents have collected to
replace my brother and me is lapping water out of the water bowl underneath my
window. I do not blame my parents. Dogs are nice. They will love unconditionally,
forgive anything. They are funny, and as soon as they aren’t, you can put them
right back outside and deal with them later. This sounds ideal next to raising
a human being.
I go right back to debating what to do next. The irony is
not lost on me: my apartment in NYC is much, much quieter than this. 4 women in
their mid-20s will sleep past 8:30 on a Tuesday, and definitely on a Saturday.
I’m well aware that my parents are trying to tell me
something. I believe it is something like this: You are home with us, and we
want your attention. We will make so much noise that even your time capsule of
a room cannot save you, and we decided to open your door and let Samir out of
your room – your prisoner of love technique was making a terrible caterwauling
sound, plus you get to be a part of our morning routine.
See, listen to the sound that this new Ninja you gave me for
Christmas makes while I crush ice and other unknown variables for your
breakfast smoothie!
I should have known better.
I make sure to acknowledge them as they walk past my room by
moving a body part, so they know I’m paying attention. Dad has big heavy
footsteps that indicates he is does not want to be the only person awake in
this house. I think my mom has on slippers on that are too big, because she is
doing a lot of shuffling, mixed in with quick steps that stop short – probably
to rub at some spot on the floor.
I realize I have a problem and it’s called I slept in only
my underwear at my parents house and I need to use the bathroom. My parent’s
movements around the house seem unpredictable, which deems my first thought of
dashing across the hall, unnoticed, to the bathroom in just my underwear an
unsuccessful venture. I know from experience that a dog bed has been placed
strategically outside my door, and it will trip me. I will be noticed, out of
bed and in my underwear, sneaking to the bathroom.
I decide against sad humiliation and with clothes on, make
it to the bathroom where Samir, even though he is mad at me for trapping him in
my room with me climbs into my lap, begins to headbutt my face. We love each
other. I sneeze; my mother hears me, “Bless you! Good morning!” followed by “Do
you want coffee?” which means, you’ve been in bed too long and I’m throwing out
all reserves – I’ll be happy to bring it you under the silent agreement that
you begin your day, NOW. “How do you like it?”
Suddenly I’ve got a black coffee, with 2.5 teaspoons of
sugar in it, as well as a fruit smoothie. I wave at my parents from my bed, a
Saturday morning double-fister, from behind the pages of DRY, by Augusten
Burroughs, whose life in rehab probably draws close parallels to my own life
that I refuse to acknowledge right now.
I find an uncrushed ice cube in my smoothie.
My mother walks into my room – “I found these shoe inserts
in my closet!” and places them on my bed. She has on exercise clothes. I see my
father wandering around in the yard outside my window, like seriously
wandering, and my mom smiles at me from the foot of my bed, “You ready?”
