My Restraint, Odds On

Ok, so lately I've been ready to move home. READY like Will Robinson in Lost in Space. As I have often pointed out. And as I've been talking to friends this last week, I've heard myself saying things. I've learned to listen to myself, to hear the patterns in what I say to others that I don't always think about alone. It's not a beautiful, soulful, Buddha-hearted thing, so I thought to make a joke of it. Here it is: you get to lay odds on how many days/weeks/months it will be before I say this to my parents... Click &c.

"Will you, please, for the Love of Mike, stop having The Same Fight over and over again!"

You see, everyone's parents have A Fight. The one they seem to like to have, or must secretly like because they keep doing it. Or just can't help because of some DNA level thing in their personalities. With my parents, their Favorite Fight pushes my communications button. Miscommunication drives me bats-o. The kind where people talk past each other. This happens with my parents in Their Fight. (The exact nature of which is NOYB, and frankly really harmless.)

Harmless or no, Their Fight gets on my last nerve. Now, Hemingway ordered me, about two months ago, not to engage in any marriage counselling during my Gen X Sabbatical at the 'Rents. OK, fine by me, I said. That deal, I said, has to go both ways. I don't counsel and long as y'all don't talk/bitch/huff to me about your marriage.

We shall see.

But, The Fight happens like twice a month. And y'all know how intemperate I can be with SOSDD issues. So, what's your bet? How long can I last? And how effective do you think the crying out to saints will be?

Because, folks, it will happen. The only question is when. And how mad at me they will be for a couple days after I explain it to them.

No worries. At the Estate, we are allowed to be direct and honest. It's appriciated, but not always 100% pleasant.

So, lay your bets. Betting closes on 15 October. The moving date.