I really have no right to complain about the Cap'n's parents. They are sweet, generous, loving and caring people. Poopies loves them, but that may be because they brought him 80 Matchbox cars and do his constant bidding, reading him book after book after book as long as he croons "Beeezzz?" ("please?"). However, even the sweetest and most caring start to get old around the third day, just like all houseguests and fish as they say. And, they'll be here for eight.
Thank god we own this sort of business and they can stay in a little house 100 feet away. Any closer and I would undoubtedly hear the unecessarily loud and incessant chatter, which I believe they probably do in their sleep. My god these people can talk. I'm amazed that the Cap'n escaped with only a half case of it, though it does tend to flare with exposure to them, which reminds me of a comet's tail as it gets closer to the sun. He has no idea why I'm completely stressed and about to pop, which sucks doubly because at the very least I should get some credit for absorbing such a barrage of blistering babble. I sat at breakfast this morning, trying to toss in a volley of conversation here and there, but really what's the point. If you can't spit it out in 5 seconds, well, better luck next time. Even if you get that thought whittled down to the absolute essentials, someone's going to interrupt it with what they predict you'll say next, even though the chances of being right are somewhere between nothing and maybe. I want to know what the point of this is. Validation? Playing the odds? Proof of telepathy?
You also can't do anything for them. I haven't cooked for four days. Which sounds nice, except I was raised to believe that one's success as a host is directly proportional to how much delicious food you serve, and preventing me from doing that makes me feel useless. I honestly tried to get them a glass of water the other day. OH NO YOU DON'T, WE DIDN'T COME HERE FOR YOU TO SERVE US. Water? Are you kidding me? OK, BUT JUST ONE GLASS, WE CAN SHARE, WE ALWAYS SHARE, EVEN AT HOME... I got them the damned water, and in two glasses! How's that for ridiculous, luxorious excess??? Christ.
There's also the thinly veiled criticism that I'm beyond wary of. It's so subtle to point out all my failings in a shrill midwestern baby voice suposidly aimed at Poopies in your constant quest to narrate every element of his world:. THAT WAS A BIG POOP IN THAT DIAPER, WASN'T IT, HUH? HUH? WHAT'S THIS ON THE CHANGING TABLE, ANOTHER DIAPER FROM EARLIER? IS IT? HUGH? HUH? WELL, LET'S JUST HELP MOMMY BY PUTTING THAT IN THE DIAPER PAIL, OK? OK? OH, THE DIAPER PAIL'S AWFULLY FULL, ISN'T IT? ISN'T IT? HUH? HUH? MOMMY WILL HAVE TO EMPTY THAT LATER, HUH? HUH?
Not that I'm faultless, but I really do start out wanting desperately to please, to have the house spotless and to appear practically perfect in every way, but after the fourth day I no longer care that the toilet has a hair on it and the kitchen needs some care, because my ears hurt and I want to scream. And that makes me feel defeated and depressed.
Sorry I'm so freaking negative, it's a rant, I know. Talk to me on Friday. I'll be better I swear.