Sometimes people accuse me of exaggerating when I speak of the Olds. Usually, those people have never met them.
I submit as evidence the following:
Notice that I did not ask about the fruits and vegetables in various states of decomposition. That’s because I do not wish to be told that any of them are in any way salvageable by people who will not even be here for several more days. I am worried that the sweet potato may be left over from Thanksgiving, but I will not ask. I am throwing them all away, because I cannot stand to have so many eyes staring at me.
When I lived at home for a year after college, one* of the Olds would become enraged if I left so much as a dirty spoon in the sink. Obviously, sometimes the temptation was too great, and I would purposely leave bowls and plates and cups in there as well. Until the night I came home exhausted, kicked off my shoes, and flung myself on the bed without pulling back the covers. Ouch. There were hard lumps in my bed, and this was a time in my life when my bed was not used to having hard lumps of any kind in it.
The Old had decided to teach me a lesson, and put my dirty dishes IN MY BED. Now. This was not especially surprising, because when my siblings and I were younger, we would usually come in the front door after school, drop our bookbags and pull off our shoes, and sometimes, it was a little cluttered. When the clutter became too much, and we forgot to pick up our things, this Old solved the problem by opening the front door and throwing whatever was in his way out in the yard. Even if it was raining.
I wonder if the potatoes will produce more sprouts after spending the rest of the week under the sheets at the foot of the Olds’ bed. And, if they drunk dial/text me one more time tonight, I’m adding the bananas.
*This Old now keeps spoons and coffee cups in his lair, which he will bring down when no one is around, and leave them in the sink. Once I counted eleven spoons.