Awkward

I stopped by my parents' house on the way home from Wisconsin to mooch some dinner. With everyone moved out of the house (except for my youngest sister, who's home from college and rarely in the house anyway), Mom has really started slacking in the food department--not at all like the good old days, when our kitchen was better than any food court. I made myself some Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese, as I hadn't had it in a while.

I dropped anchor on the couch, the huge bowl of Kraft resting on my chest for easy scooping into my mouth. My parents wanted to watch the local news, an institution I pretty typically despise. ("And, a drinking-related hit and run on the South Side. Details after this quick message from your Chicagoland and Northwest Indiana Chevy dealer." Local news has about as much substance as a box of Lucky Charms.) Channel 5 was running some exceptionally gay story about some white trash Sox couple that got married at the Joan (a.k.a. the Stadium Formerly Known As Comiskey, a.k.a. U.S. Smellular Field, a.k.a. Fortress Comiskey, a.k.a. I.I.T. Stadium). The guy was typical of any other meathead dork that frequents shitbox places like Vision--short hair, fake baked, an 8th grade education, probably on one form of steroid or another. The girl, however, was tall and blonde, and I love tall blondes. So I said, "Woah. That girl is actually pretty hot!" My dad said, "That girl is a tramp."

And then I remembered that my parents have hated pretty much every girl I was ever linked to, because (I think) they resent beautiful women. My mom actually said about as much two weeks ago, and I shot back at her, "Don't worry, Mom. I'm sure one of the other kids will take one for the team and have a couple ugly kids for you, but I can tell you that it isn't gonna be me." I also informed her that my plan was to fuck around and be a playboy until I turned 40, at which point I would marry a 25-year old model. She really loved that one, let me tell you.

At any rate, news time was pretty awkward from there on in.

Then, once the awkwardness of the news story episode subsided, my dad brought up one of his favorite topics of conversation: the high cost of jeans. My dad is an Old Navy jeans guy, because he thinks they are of a high quality and constitute a very good deal. I argued that, while all their clothes appear to be inexpensive, they don't tell you that you have to buy two of everything because everything is likely to fall apart in a matter of weeks. Inexpensive? No. Cheap? Hell yes.

I bought some jeans Monday and decided to bust them out today. (Okay, you got me: I ran out of halfway clean khakis.) Today is the first time since the spring of 1998 that I wore jeans. I remember it like yesterday. I was ridiculed by at least thirty people at the Oreo one afternoon on my way to lunch at 'Nova. As no one had ever seen me in jeans at college prior to that day, I just stopped wearing them altogether.) My mom commented that it had been years since she'd last seen me in jeans, and I told her that it had indeed been years since I'd worn them.

Then my dad jumped in and said, "What'd you pay for those jeans? $100?" And I, in a fit of honesty, replied, "I honestly don't know. I was flirting with the salesgirl pretty hard, so I didn't even ask her how much they cost, just laid down the plastic. I got her number, though." My mom thought it was hysterical. My dad shot me an evil glare. I'm sure the glare was the result of his instincts telling him how disappointingly attractive the salesgirl must have been.