  In case you all are wondering what Ive done to deserve having my parents buy a condo for me to live in exhibit A: Mom made dinner, and as Sunday would have it, we watched Sopranos while we ate. Now, I try to be a good kid, not only cleaning up the house before they come home from Julian at the end of each weekend, but I also like to let my mom take it easy somewhat. And since she cant relinquish any of the actual cooking duties to me (its her favourite thing to do each day), I like to do the dishes for her. So since it involved the disposal of chicken bones, something to be taken outside away from the reach of the nosey dogs, I went to gather the plates. Each of us had finished what we were served. I grabbed my plate, my moms, then asked my dad if he was done.
He said no, so I cleaned the two I had plus all the rest of the preparatory dishes. Came around again and mentioned there was still some leftovers, asking if I should wrap it for dads lunch tomorrow. Sounded like I should, so again I asked my dad if I could take his plate, the last item before firing up the dishwasher and ajax-ing the white sink to sanitary purity. He tried to take it himself, but I was already soapy. And I was in the help-mom zone. When I get going, why not finish the job?
Its what my dads been yelling at me for since I was a kid. So I take the plate, take out the trash, start the dishwasher, bleach the sink, clean the stovetop, soak and scrub the pans all the while missing the Sopranos while mom and dad relax. And then I hear, Well, she asked you if you were finished! Well, she insisted in taking my plate! he says. So get up and make another plate.
I told you there were extras. Ill pause the Tivo. I didnt hear the rest; just enough to put me on that verge between wanting to get angry and throw a silent tantrum and feeling like confronting/resolving the problem directly to expose the weak link in the communication process. I thought about finishing the chores and slinking upstairs silently. Then I realised: Just put the rest of the food on a plate, bring it to him, and tell him straight that he told me he was done, and all I was aiming to do was to help mom from having to do the dishes. All you had to do is say you were having seconds.
Mom and I had a brief, private laugh about him on my way upstairs. I was leaving the kitchen through one door while he was coming in through another entrance to refill his wine glass. That just the way it is, she says. I know, I respond casually. I could have been pissed at him or I could just give him what he wants and let it go. Whatever.
At least he didnt yell at me. I always love that; being a trooper, a model citizen, and I get yelled at for something so ridiculous, so not important. Or worse, something I have nothing to do with. Thats fun. If the dogs werent so tired, to the point of limping, Id take one out for a walk with me. I need a smoke.
I have a ticklish day of professor-ass-kissing on the horizon for tomorrow. I bought her a book from the Getty museum, the exhibit she encouraged us all to go see. Schmoozed with the checkout man, and he gave me about six free bookmarks on the same theme. A bonus gift, kind of like at the Clinique counter. Casey dog is having dog dreams, woofing quietly to herself on my bed, little red legs twitching along with her lids. Weve renamed her now that shes 8 and getting on with age.
Skeletor-dog. White skeletal outlines on her red face. Cracks me up whenever I see her, no longer able to take butchdog seriously. 
