Living With Your Parents After 30

I swear to Hip Hop Jesus that coming back to live with my parents is going to "kilt me dead!"

I've been up since before 7am, something I don't even do for work. Although I hear their morning noises, water running, shuffling of dishes, vegetables being chopped, it's been silent all morning, not like The Silver Fox's normal marching band routine. They even leave for an hour, while I'm studying.

However, as I am preparing to get on the phone for this interview, a homework assignment, the marching band begins.

"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhooooooooooohhhhhhhhahw!" The Silver Fox howls at my Dad outside who is weed whacking.

She turns on the Motown/Doo-Wop music channel loud enough so that she can hear it throughout the house as she dusts. "It's in his kiss..." She sings outside my bedroom door.

The clock is counting down closer to 10 when I have scheduled this call.

She's quiet. Just like a child, that's usually a bad thing.

Then I hear it. The wheels are squeaking as they rotate on the hardwood floors. The joints of the machine creak. The cords, still wound in a circle, but unraveled from the machine lands on the floor with a thank-type noise. It's not a thud.

The plug is inserted in the wall, the engine revs and she is howling with the vacuum.

It's 10 o'clock. The vacuum is running, like a drunk driver she is banging into furniture and walls, and she's singing with the music.

I gather my belongings together to sneak out to my office, aka my car. It's the only silent place I can go to conduct business. But with the eyes in the back of her head she sees me, "Where do you think you're going?"

"I have to conduct an interview for school."

It's the only acceptable answer I can give her to get me out if the house. And just like that I'm 17 again asking for permission to leave.