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“This one is for the sole purpose of turning the television on and off, and adjusting the volume. It sits on top of the table by the lamp. This remote, you NEVER touch the power button, nor do you touch the cable, DVD, or VCR buttons, otherwise, you will lose control over the cable and it takes forever to get it back, your mother does it all the time, and it drives me crazy. And to change the channel, you enter the number of the channel you want and press okay. Don’t use these buttons because they don’t work very well. This remote sits next to the stereo. If you put it on the table by the lamp Mimi will walk all over it and press the buttons. It’ll get all messed up. So never put it there.”
This was the short version of the lecture I had to endure the very night I arrived at my parents’. I sat in a chair in the living room, eating leftover chicken cacciatorre my Mom had heated up for me, after driving seven hours (door-to-door, not too bad) from OC.
I was barely there for twenty minutes before my Dad started in on his weird, almost ritualistic habits and policies. The remotes, the litter boxes, where I should park my car, the laundry, etcetera.
My mother confessed not just that she was so happy to have me home, but that I had a few new projects to complete for her. Apparently, it is my duty to rearrange and redecorate the house. Which, to be honest, I’m looking forward to. I like to rearrange and redecorate.
“Dad, why don’t you just get a new remote control? Wouldn’t that be easi-”
“No, Melissa.” He rolled his eyes and looked at me exasperated, like I couldn’t possibly know what I was talking about. When he said my name, he almost hissed. Melisssssssa. I hovered over my bowl of cacciatorre and tried not to laugh. He’s so cute and so annoying at the same time.
I blocked out his diatribe, and wondered if he was going to try and control my life right along with controlling the remotes. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
My Mom just smiles at me every time she notices my clenched jaw after walking away from one of his lectures or interrogations. “Just laugh it off, and let it go,” she says. “Patronize him! Yes, Daddy, No Daddy, I’ll do this or that Daddy, I promise.”
“You know, Dad. I have been here to visit before, I know how the remotes work.”
“No, you don’t, Melissa, it has changed since you’ve been here last,” He stated with a clenched jaw. Yes, I get that from him. So does Michelle.
“It’s changed in three and a half months?”
“YES!”
“Okay.”
I think I’ll watch TV in my room from now on.
P Funk Era
If you can tell the difference between a fresh cigarette and a stale one, you are undeniably a smoker. This is also true, if you can taste the difference between cigarettes, and prefer a certain kind, or if you can tell when to put one out because you can taste the filter. It is slightly disconcerting to me that I know this. I don’t consider myself a smoker, but unfortunately I relate to everything I’ve just listed. I don’t crave cigarettes, unless intoxicated; I don’t smoke regularly. I guess I am what you might call a binge smoker. For instance, yesterday Jeff and I probably smoked two and a half packs between the two of us. We drank A LOT too. (I guess I’m a binge drinker too.) But I did not drink or smoke for three days prior to this (with the exception of a glass of red wine… or two), and I was perfectly fine with that. What is it about cigarettes and alcohol that they go hand-in-hand?
Bryant is not a smoker. Nevertheless, he will smoke on occassion. Usually with my persuasion. (Yeah, fuck off, I know, I’m a bad influence) Menthols are his “gritt” of choice. “They’re so much more smooth, they don’t make me want to cough.” Preference 
ha. He can’t, however, tell the difference between a stale cigarette and one from a freshly opened pack. Which drives me crazy. We’ll go outside to smoke and he’ll give me a cigarette from a pack he found on the roof deck two weeks ago. But only offers this information after he’s lit my cigarette, and I’m practically gagging cause it taste like an old ashtray. I know, I know, you’re thinking hey, it’s a fuckin’ cigarette, don’t they all taste like an ashtray? Yeah, but no. If you smoke, or have smoked, you know what I mean.
God, I need to stop. I was the little girl who, when asked what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday replied, “I want you to quit smoking Mom.” And a few weekends ago, my mom and aunt were visiting, and Michelle and I drank AND smoked with them every night! Horrible. What is worse is that my aunt probably hasn’t smoked in like fifteen years, and now if she starts again I’ll blame myself. It was very surreal, getting hammered in a bar with them, smoking outside of the bar with them.
I feel like shit today. And I know that it is because I smoked too much last night. If I drink and don’t smoke, the hangover goes away, and I feel fine. But I can always tell when I’ve smoked too much because I feel like my head is in a fog for the entire next day. If only I had this predisposed clarity last night, foresight (or perhaps sobriety?) could have prevented the P Funkfog today. In the heat of the moment, having a raging fun time will always surpass good intentions. Who wants to worry about tomorrow, while getting fucked up tonight? Besides isn’t that the point of getting fucked up, to forget about tomorrow?
What the hell do I know. Oh.. right…I know the difference between a stale cigarette and a fresh one.
My mom would be proud.
Yeah, not so much.
