"Good Morn-" "Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!"

I'm going to blog about something that has absolutely nothing to do with children's literature, reading or writing.

You can wander away if that unnerves you.

I wouldn't characterize myself as being a morning person or a night owl.  I am a "gets up whatever time she needs to" person.  But having said that, no matter what time I wake up, I need to be left alone for at least an hour or two after I wake.

For serious.

This is normally not a problem for me.  I live alone.  I get plenty of alone time.  In undergrad, none of my roommates were prone to talking beyond a grunted "mornnnnnnnnmph," as we all opened our laptops and sat in silence until one of us suggested, "breakfast?" sometime around noon.

No, this is only a problem when I come home to visit my parents.  They are morning people.  Talkative, inquisitive, morning people.

I long ago learned to just stay in bed after I woke-up when I visited home.  I'd usually read or write in bed (there!  Mentioned BOTH reading and writing!), while silently hoping that my dad would sense I was awake and bring me coffee...but not speak to me--at all!--while setting it on my bedside table.

If I didn't venture out until I'd been up for a couple of hours, that'd mean The Parents would have been up for three or four hours and not only would have eaten their breakfast, but they also could have been napping by then.

This morning (alas!) I disobeyed my own rule.  Mere minutes after waking, I ventured out with my pillow cases and sheets in hand to be washed.

This was a mistake.

As I entered the kitchen (which is near where the clothes washer is stored) THE PARENTS ATTACKED.

THE MOM:  Oh hey, you're awake!
THE DAD:  Good morning!
ME:  ...

I walked past them and dumped my sheets on the floor.

THE MOM:  Do you want some breakfast.
ME:  No.
THE DAD:  I can make you eggs and bacon.

(Even worse than just talking to me and asking me questions, The Dad is attempting to be humorous.  I know it doesn't seem like it, but he is.  I've been a vegetarian for over nine years.  Dad knows this.  So, by offering to make bacon he knows that he is safe from having to cook for me.)

ME:  No.

At this point, I began to retreat back down the hall, feeling the grumpy vibes rising.

The Dad followed me.

Actually stalked me down the hall to the bathroom.

THE DAD:  Do you want a blueberry muffin?
ME:  No.

And I closed the bathroom door.

THE DAD:  Mom got them just for you.

I take great offense to The Dad yelling this through the bathroom door.  I believe in the bathroom cone of silence.  When someone is in the bathroom and the door is closed, no sounds originating from either side of the door are to be acknowledge or discussed.  Ever.

It seems polite.

So, since I was the one in the bathroom, I had expected The Dad to respect the cone of silence.

THE DAD:  So, do you want a blueberry muffin?
ME:  NO!

The Dad continued to talk at me through the door, but I was soon distracted by another problem.  There was a cat hair ball on the carpet of the bathroom.  It was particularly fresh and icky.

The instant I saw the cat puke, my grumpiness that had taken root with the first "good morning," blossomed into RAGE.  This was going to be a bad day.  I should have stayed in bed.

My brain was slow, so I tried to decide if I could just ignore the cat puke and allow one of the parents to find it, so one of them could clean it.  Then I remembered The-Dad-Stalking and that he was still asking me questions through the door about how I slept and my plans for the day and saying that he loved me and that he was so glad I'd decided to visit him and The Mom.

I was going to have to pretend to be an adult and clean the cat puke myself.  Even worse, I'd have to go back down to the kitchen to get the cleaning supplies, where The Mom, while more sedate than The Dad, could ask what I was doing.

The reason I share this story with you, few but dear readers, is so that I can make a public pledge:

I, Shel HungryReader, vow to always stay in bed reading for at least an hour after I wake.  That way I can avoid conversing with The Parents and they can find the cat puke.

Happy holiday weekend!