05-31-00
I love my parents. I swear I do, but man do they know how to work me.
It all started out with an innocent phone call home. I don't even remember why I called. I think it was to ask for them to send the tuition money for my botany class -- they're not paying for college, this class is my birthday present. Anyways, mom asked me if I wanted some strawberries. I told her most definitely yes, and she told me to come and get them. My parents have a small, yet lucrative strawberry and rhubarb gig going. They sell them to friends and neighbors, and make enough money to buy things like household appliances. I arranged to come out to their house last thursday for dinner and fruit.
I got off work and went home that thursday. I promptly called my parent's home and talked to my dad. I asked if I could trade them my generic 90's oscillating fan for their 1947 GE Vortalux fan in the basement. He said that was fine. He asked me to buy a "camera specific battery that is like an a-cell but shorter and fatter." I told him I would do my best, and headed out for Target. I bought the battery that fit the description and drove to their house.
When I got there, dinner was served and we ate like kings. That is how food is eaten at the farmhouse. Two meats. Salad with fresh baby greens and a choice of three dressings. Fresh baked bread. Asparagus and hollandaise sauce. Ice cream with maple syrup and fresh strawberries. Yes, the strawberries; over dinner it was explained to me that we had to pick 20 pounds of strawberries while it was still light out, and whatever was left over from that, I was welcome to have. My parents suckered me into being a migrant worker who would be paid in produce. I complied. I got a nasty rash all over my arms from the plants. I scored 6.5 pounds of organic, tasty, freshly picked strawberries.
After the rash subsided, my mother asked if I could help my dad type up something because "he has no secretary until next week and this appeal is due in court before then and it's important and he types with two fingers and it took him one hour to do the cover page and it is badly formatted." He would also demonstrate his thanks by changing the oil in my car. With an offer like that, how could I refuse? He got his appeal typed up nicely, and I got my oil changed, and I suspect my tires have also been filled.
I don't know what I will do when I don't have my dad around, tinkering with my car behind my back. I go for dinner and leave with my tires balanced, rotated, and all the fluids checked and topped off. The best part of this is the surreptitious nature of the tune-ups, too. He offers to take the compost bucket out to the pile, and comes back an hour later, all greasy and dirty, no explanation asked for or given.
I love my parents. I swear I do, but man do they know how to work me.
