Let It Mellow

My parents, products of strict and stifling home environments, brought up in urban cities, did what all good parents did in 1970. They became hippies. My dad took a keen interest in house plants of the non-medicinal variety, my mom sewed her own floor-length patchwork gauchos, and when they started a family, they eventually moved to a dilapidated farm so that they could have an enormous garden and embrace vegetarianism (at this point, you should be starting to understand why I drink Lime Kool-Aid and still refuse to eat the crusts of my Wonderbread Nutella sandwiches). My mom baked her own bread, my dad got a few animals and did his own castrations and slaughterings. It was a grody, interesting, creativity-encouraging way to grow up.

I tell you this because, despite finally embracing the joys that are steak and Old Navy, my parents are still at heart hippies. They love living in Canada, with its liberal views and recycling Nazism. They have a rain barrel and my mom still sews her own curtains, and my dad performs gay weddings. They talk about the US like it's a crazy abusive embarassing relative who is no longer welcome in their home, despite the fact that they were both born and raised there and that Jellybean and I live there still. They sign petitions and write letters about injustices in the world, and cook with tofu. There's still a bong or two somewhere in the house.

And if I have to feel someone else’s pee splash on my downstairs one more time, I am going to lose my mind.