Christmas Eve is here, it’s 2.31am – so yes, technically, I guess the little elf technicians (they ARE elves, right? that Santa’s got? – not like, dwarves or pixies or anything? – I don’t remember)… anywho, the possibly elves are checking out the sleigh, making last-minute wooden horses and making ABSOLUTELY sure that all the lists are checked – and even though bad children usually still get their Game Boys nowadays, rather than lumps of coal, they are often at least denied their AA batteries.
So, yeah, Christmas Eve, and I’m lying on my parents’ couch…
I think this is one of the first times – possibly THE first time since 99, whence my brother went off to college (that can’t be right, but I’ll just leave the number for the time being) that both George and I are staying the night at my parents’ house.
My parents, of course, are not quite prepared for this deluge of sons, and hence, I’m on the couch.
Which is fine, it’s a huge couch. (btw – a quick note about the Santa photo – I don’t remember what he was saying to me, but I remember it being vaguely suggestive)… But it is sort of strange for one’s parents not to have room for you.
George Lives in Texas, I Live in a Saturn. It’s amazing the two different Lives we lead – he’s studying to complete his PhD in some sort of genetic field which I only have a vague hope of understanding – I’m travelling the country, barely scraping a Living together selling my music and art. His girlfriend/fiancé and he are buying joint appliances and tools for around the house, and my girlfriend and I don’t even own a cooler.
I don’t know, it’s amazing how different Lives can turn out.
It’s good to see George. Having a brother who’s separated from the rest of my Life means that I’ve got someone to tell things to that I just couldn’t discuss with anyone else – he’s already been witness to some of my most embarassing moments, and so he can be privy to a few more.
Who else can you discuss feminine flatulance with? And of course, it’s really good to have familial support right now. The Hinkals are going through some rough times, and … it’s good to have this weird cross between outsider/insider in the area, even if it’s only for a week.
It’s funny – there are only a couple of people’s opinions that really concern me when it comes to my Life choices – and my little brother – well, I’m not so sure that I worry about what he thinks so much as he’s someone who I think will always respect the choices I make. Because of that, I sometimes worry about what he thinks about the end product.
I don’t think he’s particularly into my art or my music – but I hope he gets something out of it – because God knows I’m impressed by the sheer incomprehensibility of what HE does.
Anywho, it’s almost 3am, so it’s about time for me to at least ATTEMPT turning in. I’m full of my mother’s leftover stew. Great stew. I miss my mother’s stew. That and I miss her meatloaf, her hamburger soup (very similar to Heather’s Dad’s chile, but she beats him out because of the inclusion of huge hunks of vegetables – tomatoes and onions n things) – and, strangely enough, I really miss my mom’s pizza.
Realizing that said pizza was nothing more than a pretty specific Chef Boy … R D? mix, “bake at home” sort of box thing, I guess that’s not that big of a deal – but I think the mix itself has been discontinued. I feel bad because I know I mentioned this once before, and my mom tracked the mix down and gave me some for some birthday or something, and then I never made it and eventually had to throw it out because of weevils or something equivalently horrific.
That kind of waste of given treasures haunts me.
Besides, it wouldn’t have been the same. It was on those pizzas that I learned the Love of mushrooms – very specific mushrooms, curling in on themselves from the oven heat, blackened on the edges… the fights my brother and I used to have when one of his cursed black olives would cross the line on to MY half of the pizza.
I hate growing up.
Sitting watching part of the James Bond marathon with my parents. Spike TV, however, doesn’t really have the type of commercials I generally enjoy watching with my parents. Usually I think of them as very open minded… but then there’s the “gives good finger” beer commercial. And then I cringe.
My mom is wearing her Grinch slippers, and we’re going to finish the movie, and then go to my Grandfather’s house to be all familial n stuff. In the meantime, George and I have been sorting toys and clothes and random stuff in the basement, sorting through boxes and hunting through bins. I have a cabinet here in Seabrook which is to eventually be the place where all of my “home” stuff resides. At the moment, I feel kind of bad because I also have a crate of home stuff at Heather’s parents’ house. Hopefully this will change over the next couple of days.
Maybe a Hanukkah present for the Lloyds can be a little extra closet space.
