The Plan Keeps Coming Back Again… (Pt. 4)

Sunday, 2:00 PM

The scene: I'm lying prone on the couch in the living room at my parents house, eyes squeezed shut. The front door opens; my father and mother enter.

Dad: L? L? Are you awake? L?

Me (sighing inwardly): Uhh… yeah?

Dad: How are the allergies? Feeling better?

Me: I'll be fine tomorrow. This just lasts a day. I think I ate something with mushrooms last night at F's. So,how did E (my niece) do at her feis?

(Note: For you unfortunate souls not lucky enough to be Irish, a feis - pronounced "fesh" - is an Irish step dancing competition.)

Mom: Two first place ribbons and a second place in the team competition.

Me: Did you take any pictures?

Him: I would have... if your mother hadn't lost the batteries.

Her: I know I just saw them around here somewhere… Let me go look again…

(She heads off into the kitchen.)

Me: Seriously… again? I told you to get a safety deposit box for this stuff, didn't I?

Dad: Hey, she threw away her wedding gown. What chance do rechargeable batteries have?

Me: Well, don't say I didn't try to help.

Him: OK.

(pause)

You know, I hardly feel like we talked all weekend.

Me: Yeah, I know. Me too.

Him: I know you have a lot going on, but next time you come up, you should try to make some time for your mother. She'd appreciate that.

Me (reeling from an irony deficiency: I'll, uh.. see what I can do. 

Him: Be sure to say so long before you go. I'm headed to the back room. They're in the middle of a three-part Streets of San Francisco story.

Me: Will do Dad.

***

The scene: Two hours later. My sister C looks down sympathetically.

C: And you hardly ever have allergy attacks anymore, right?

Me (weakly): Yeah. Just bad timing.

C: I'll say. So you *still* haven't told them?

Me: Like when? During the commercial breaks on TV Land?

C (nodding): That's true. All I can say is the clothes on those 70s cop shows are enough to make *me* ill. Seriously - plaid jackets and  polka dot ties? Even *you* know enough not  to do that.

Me: Thank you for the vote of confidence.

C: Don't be. All it means is you aren't color-blind or a retired cop like Dad. (shudders) Have you ever seen him mow the lawn in Bermuda shorts and dark knee socks?

Me: Hey, I'm already feeling queasy. Do you mind?

C: Sorry. Seriously, you'd better tell them soon. At this rate your boobs will be my size by the time they know. (looking down at her self-described "twelve-year-old's chest") Not that they'd notice, I suppose.

Me: Hey, you said it, not me.

C: Well, I'm off to work. (leans down and kisses me) Take care of yourself, sis.

Me: Thanks. You too.

***

Postscript: I now know the perfect Christmas gift for my parents: a universal remote. Preferably with a garage door option.

*** 

Here's where I swiped the title for the last few posts: Idaho's finest, the mighty Built To Spill. Incidentally, Doug Martsch, the lead singer, is no slouch in the guitar hero sweepstakes, as you can see:

And one more, if you're in the mood for an epic. These guys are seriously good musicians: