It was a Dark and Stormy Night...

About got blown off the road driving home tonight. The rain was falling sideways and the highway was coated with standing water. It's January on the Oregon Coast. We are making up for the dry December we had. Evenings like this call for an early bedtime and a good book, or maybe a movie. Hmmm...dinner and a movie. Homestyle.

It's just another night on the Oregon Coast.

Living w/The Parents Chapter One

I live with my parents. I married at age nineteen, had two children by age 29, was divorced at age 42. After my single parent stage of raising my kids and a cold turn of the economy, I am back “home.” Living with the parents. All two of them. Mom and Dad. I am the child. The child that lives at home. With the parents. I tell myself that I live in a cool “studio” apartment, with my familiar belongings surrounding me. My bed, chair, office, a few knick knacks and pictures, all efficiently placed according to the church of Ikea. In reality I live in my parents family room that used to be a double car garage. I think I won’t dwell upon reality because a studio apartment sounds way more hip than, “Hey, I live in my parent’s garage.”

Don’t get me wrong. I am very thankful to be able to live at my parents. I needed a place to live and they invited me in. It’s not easy for them either. In fact, I think I might be able to write a book about it. I’m gathering material. Some starters:

Nazi Soup

My dad made soup for dinner. It was delicious. Just as I requested, no tomatoes, just beefy hamburger/vegetable soup. Yum. Now when Dad makes something, he expects a critique. He expects you to let him know how much you like it. For example, his specialty is spaghetti. He makes good spaghetti. But lately he has been boasting that every batch is “the best he’s ever made.” So back to the soup. Well, this soup was tasty, but it didn’t have enough veggies in it. A bit too much broth, not enough substance. The next morning I was ladeling some up to take with me work and he mentioned that he was going to add some more veggies. I told him, “Yeah, you better because it’s like Nazi Soup. You know, from the Seinfeld show, the soup that had nothing in it but broth?”

Well, meaning absolutely no disrespect by mentioning the Nazis, I effectively illustrated the problem with the soup. Not enough in it.

By the way, when I got “home” from work today, he told me that there was some Nazi Soup on the stove…with more vegetables.