Have been a bit bummed to return to Ohio. Didn’t realize how much so until my Mom called me on it. Apparently I’ve been snippy.
She is not offended and doesn’t blame me. She admits that she doesn’t feel like Ohio is where SHE wants to end up, nevermind that she has been stuck here by circumstance since the start of the 70’s. “Life often gets in the way of your plans,” she says. I’m realizing that though blood is thicker than water and all of that, 9 years is a really significant amount of time to spend in one place. And though they aren’t family, I have some really good friends that I love quite dearly, so it shouldn’t be so surprising to me that I’m feeling withdrawal and not wanting to leave LA.
These first few days back to Ohio, the weather has only made things worse. Yesterday, heavy clouds and non-stop rain. Today, chilly with heavy clouds all day, followed by….snow. Yech.
So, to try to make things interesting, I play little games with myself….set challenges!
How late can I manage to stay in bed before my ear starts to hurt and I lose feeling in my butt and parts of my legs? How long can I watch Wolf Blitzer on tv before wanting to kill myself or someone else? What is the worst, fattiest, most needless snack I can come up with to eat at 11pm before I sit down to watch crime procedurals on USA or A&E? How many days can I reeeeeally go without showering before people start to notice? And what happens if I throw a workout into the mix to “spice things up”? (Pun intended).
There was a tiny touch of excitement today when my Dad put a sweet potato in the microwave, accidentally set it to cook for over 90 minutes, and forgot about it, subsequently causing it to blow up in a charred, smoky blaze of glory that filled the house with pretty wafts of floating grey mist and a lingering burnt smell. Fortunately, no flames escaped the microwave, and though the ceramic bowl shattered, the resulting potato itself was more like a lump of coal than a spray of masher guts, so cleanup was reasonable.
We went out for dinner tonight instead of further (dangerous!) cooking. On the way home, my Dad spots a sign at a camera shop called Moto Photo advertising portraits with “live bunnies.” He insists that these are the Playboy variety, and emits the chuckle of a man who is onto their little charade. “IT’S EASTER.” I declare. He is not to be dissuaded. I’m almost as alarmed by this belief as if he were insisting on the existence of leprechauns, and I must act swiftly to stamp out this unruly mythical notion. “We’re in Dayton, Ohio.” I say – hearing audible anxiety in my voice. Our very locale is to me irrefutable proof that there cannot possibly be ads for scantily clad 60’s era lounge waitresses floating around, but he’s not buying. He’s older and wiser. So, if you live in the Dayton area, and are into that kind of thing, you may want to call over to the Moto Photo near The Greene and book yourself a Hugh Hefner style glamour shot. There are live bunnies!