Why Whine: Sorting
What if I would have said yes? Would I be buying Bridezilla books tomorrow? Nah, the guy was weird. He bought a cigarette off me but never bothered to light it. I’d rather have the cigarette than his dollar, to be honest.
‘Hayes!?’
‘What?’
My co-worker signals me to pay attention.
‘I can help the next person inline.’
My parents are weird. Like really weird. For my age and theirs, they should be my grandparents. Which explains why there are only one of me. Both they and biology decided one of me was enough.
I grew up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. On the sixth floor of a prewar,elevator building between Broadway and Riverside Park. My Dad was a general physician until he retired when I was in college. My mother an environmental lawyer until she decided to retire when I was in graduate school. Just in time to bother my Father and I full-time, yet she seems to work more now than when she was gainfully employed.
My Dad is from South Africa, my Mother is from Detroit. My Mother is petite, sharp and bossy as hell. My father is of average height, with a healthy round belly nurtured by good beer, frameless glasses and a dry, patient sense of humor.Living with them full-time again is like living with a really outre Laurel and Hardy sketch team.
When I’m not at work, I’m locked inside my room. The same room I lived in from infancy to adolescence. I finish a boring shift, come home and go straight to my room. A room without a lock, that my mother loves to barge through unannounced when her mood sees fit. In retaliation, I rarely bother saying hello when I walk into the large apartment, even if they’re in the sitting room, which irritates my African Father to no end.
Getting into my old grungy sweats, I lay on my bed and ask God, myself and the ceiling,how my life got to this. How am I living in the room I grew up in, lounging in the same tattered, stained sweats I wore in high school? I should be hipping it up in Brooklyn. Life is cruel.
I pay the rent by cooking and cleaning. Neither of my parents are great at either and I pride myself on being excellent at both, especially my culinary creativity. I used to have the best dinner parties in my spacious Brooklyn studio, with every meal perfectly paired with the appropriate wine. Also, I’m super anal retentive and a too dirty kitchen or bathroom will drive me mad. I know too well what the kitchen will look like if my parents make one of their bizarre casseroles.
Sitting on the ancient but immaculate porcelain seat, I listen to myself micturate and wonder what to make for dinner. Soup. I flush and shuffle to kitchen and begin making a bowl of Top Ramen and search the fridge for spare vegetables to toss in. I find some scallions and carrots and begin chopping them, letting my mind enjoy the practiced action.
‘Hayes,’my Mother calls, speeding into the kitchen. ‘Did you see that article about the woman who claims you can train cats? Should I try training Milo? Something,isn’t it?’
My Mother loves to obsess about things she’s read in the paper. She can’t really relax, so always has her head in some mischief. She’ll come across something unusual in the Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, Atlantic Monthly, whatever and if she disagrees with what she’s read, she’ll write a letter to the paper. If the commentary appeals to her, she’ll go on a tear.
I nod in response to her cat comment. (I’m thinking about Milo, our lazy one-eyed former stray Tabby. Perched in a window, splayed on the floor or laying in a lap is all that cat can do.) My non-verbal acquiescence gives my Mum permission to go on. And on. When she’s stopped talking, my bowl of ramen is perfectly spiced with the veggies steaming in the broth. I take a bottle of Nigori Sake out the fridge and find the special ceramic cup I reserve for sake. I place it on a tray with a large glass of fizzy water. On my retreat to my room, I detour to the sitting room and kiss my Father hello, continuing on.
Is witch on my computer monitor and begin the hours long ‘Seinfeld’ marathon that will gradually put me to sleep. I slurp my soup and suddenly remember that the weirdo at work today had an accent. I can’t remember what it sounded like, but it was definitely not American. I draw my attention back to the screen and grunt in amusement at the absurdity of it all.
