Seen in her natural habitat, the Middle Child might seem grumpy, unapproachable, and/or miserable, when in fact she is just, as they say in popular parlance, “balls cold.”
My parents’ Explorer’s every nook and cranny is full of stuff. We are taking Christmas decorations and baking supplies, for God’s sake. And a giant bin full of food. Because Gatlinburg is so rural that I heard you have to kill and eat your own dinner there.
The upstairs portion of the parental unit’s house currently has no heat. I slept for three hours, tightly wound into a ball of nerves, and awoke to my father’s face looming above me. He told me my brother and I both snored hardcore. Having my dad tell me that is a little like having Michael Phelps tell me I’m a good swimmer.
My parents’ newest dog, Charlie, hates me and does not let me enter a new room without issuing ear-piercing tiny-dog bellows and barreling after me like he’s going to take me out with his tiny little jaws. My brother, who Charlie also hates, said Charlie crapped in his bedroom five times one night just because he could. I love all living things, but I hate this fucking dog.
I took a shower despite warnings of no hot water. I usually take pretty long, leisurely showers, during which I balance my checkbook and compose poetry, but this shower took roughly seven nanoseconds. When I got out and saw my mom, she told me my outfit was cute.
I am wearing pajamas.
We haven’t even left the house yet.
Oh. Lord.