This is the perfect explanation of my father: this weekend, my parents are attending the fortieth anniversary party of their friend the Smiths. The party is at a UAW resort somewhere up north; they drove up today and will return tomorrow. (House to myself! Woot!) Yesterday, Mom suggested a departure time of 11 a.m. this morning; The Malingerer suggested noon. Mom relented. Trying to be nice, she then mentioned him that there was to be a Corvette show today at a local car dealership. Dad acquired a 'Vette last summer, and he's always been one of those annoying car aficionados. She informed him of an activity he'd enjoy, and even gave in to his departure preference. So, this morning he went to be with his fellow Corvette jerks and didn't come back to the house until almost 12:30 p.m. Mom had wanted to leave at 11 a.m.; they left at approximately 12:40 p.m. That's my dad, right there.

That, and the fact that my dad's name is Rick, he has a mustache, and he owns a bitchin' Camero.

Solo
The one thing I truly hate about living at home is that I'm almost never alone. Not really. One or both of my parents fall asleep downstairs every weeknight, one or the other of them gets home before I do nearly every afternoon, and they are both so quasi-deaf now that you can hear every word of whatever TV show they are watching from anywhere on the same floor of the house. They are omnipresent. And I have always enjoyed my own company immensely. I love to be alone; I need to be alone more than anyone else I know. Tonight, at least, blessed solitude.

There is a distinction between being alone and being lonely. Of late, I will confess to being somewhat lonely. Tonight, though, I am just alone and it is glorious.