08 February 2008

I even baked snikerdoodles...

The dishes are washed. The laundry is done. The apartment is clean. If my personal cosmic universe has aligned so these three statements are simultaneously true, it can only mean one thing:

My parents are in town.

Indeed, my parents have dropped in from the Bay Area to see the shows I recently dramaturged. I think I finally have them trained: come for the big 'uns, even if I'm not on stage. I remember the hazy outline of a conversation we had back when I was an undergrad. It went a little something like, "Oh, maybe we'll come up to see you acting in something someday somewhere sometime not right now what is this dramaturgy thing and how long will this phase last are you still listening please say no." The previous sentence is, of course, best read in one breath, spanning an octave or two with a fairly extreme diminuendo.

I'm not doing these two justice here. They're a fairly decent set of parents who do ridiculously cute things like walk down the street holding hands after 40 years of marriage. Though I am expecting a "Get a new job" lecture from Dad within the next 48 hours. I've been trying on authentic responses to this forthcoming tirade in the mirror since I dropped them of the the B&B around the corner. If only I could muster a more pathetic plea. "I'm trying!" Maybe one where I can get all the vowels including y into some double luxe tripthong sound. "I'm trauyoing."

It's only been a few hours, but I am already entertained. I prepared a short list of the evening's highlights:
  1. Mama Crow calls the MAX the Maxi Train, which makes me think of a giant sanitary napkin on rails.
  2. Dad already mistakenly called me by my sister's name three times, and our dead cat's name once.
  3. Mama Crow totally ruined my crush on Tim Gunn by telling me, "I can see why you like him. He looks kinda like your dad."
I'd like to divorce that statement from my psyche, but it's been a challenge to "Make it work."



Here's a photo set for comparison. I like to imagine that Tim is about to say something like, "Mike. The hibachi hunchback isn't wearable, but it captures the set-in-bone travail of l'ouvrier. Still, you're going to have to resolve the Teva's and perma-socks. You've got some work to do. Carry on!"

4 comments:

Mike said...

k.crow, I'm so sorry I outed you to your parents about this blog! I really hope that they instantly forgot I mentioned it it and that didn't clamor to see it as soon as you got home. You know, you could claim I was referring to one of your many other blogglings....anyway it was a delight to meet them, they were both charming.

Your dad's a hunk!! I would definitely marry him. If he weren't already married. To your mom. (Yes, you can add all this to your growing list of Comments That Must Be Psychically Expunged....)

Mead said...

Oops, I'm the previous poster, not Mike. I forgot to log in and Blogger defaults to Mike's account due to pernicious and technically unexplainable quirk or quark of the system.

k. crow said...

I wouldn't worry about outing the blog. It had to happen some day. Mama Crow's interest is definitely piqued. I wonder if I should edit out some embellishments and embarrassments. I know that if I tell her, "Don't read the archives," it'll be misconstrued as an invitation to read the archives.

Mead said...

Definitely do not mention the archives -- she'll never find them if you don't alert her to their existence.