Maxigumee

My father is a fine example of the male period. He’s usually in a pretty foul mood, but occasionally, he hits a peak in his moodiness. Like this weekend. Nothing but constant moping and horribleness. *Ring, ring!* That’s the phone. Answer the phone, Dad. “No. Why would anybody call me at home?” Well, you know, you’re not the only one living in this house. – Dad, we need new ink for the printer, it’s kind of running out of ink. “I’m never buying ink for the printer again for as long as I live. I never use the printer.” Well, that’s nice, but last time I checked, there were three other people in the house, two of which are still in school and need to PRINT STUFF!

So, anyway. It was last night. It was late, I was downstairs getting my expanders or a glass of water or something. I was about to go upstairs when I realized I needed to shut the porch light off. I was just about to shut the light off when a very, very, very, very loud beeping noise…. beeped. BEEP! Time for Max to freak out, screw the porch light idea, and dash as fast up the stairs as his legs can take him. Loud noises scare me. (I can’t even vacuum when I’m home alone.)

Anyway, the loud beeping noise kind of freaked me out. I guess it was probably a smoke detector in need of batteries, but it could have been a psycho killer with some sort of beeping device to knock his targets unconscious. My ear was hurting when I came upstairs.

Anyway (again), after being a little freaked out by the noise, I came upstairs. I asked my father what the beeping noise was. He said it was probably a smoke detector. Right, okay. So. Still, a little freaked out from the buzzing noise, -it could have been a psycho killer- I closed the door to the upstairs perhaps a little too hard. I found that I had accidentally shut the door while a towel was hanging on its corner. The towel was then crammed tightly between the door and the door frame, making it almost impossible to open the door. –Ugh. I can’t stand it when people hang towels on doors or anywhere after they’ve been used. Ew. That’s been on your NAKED BODY. WASH IT.

So, I tugged and tugged and tugged some more at the door knob. It would not budge. “Daaaad! Daaad! The door won’t open! The door. Won’t. Open!” No response. Oh well, I guess I’ll try this pulling on the towel thing to try to get it out. Woops, shouldn’t have done that. The towel ripped. Darn. “Daaad! Daaaad! I ripped the towel! Daaad!” Maybe if I put my feet against the wall like this and then pull on the door knob….. nope, that won’t work, either.

(Dad rushes into the room.) “You broke something? Ohhhhh, god, what did you break? The door? Oh, I’m going to be sick. Oooooh, lord. You’re such an idiot. Ohhhhh, lord. I’m going to throw up. Ohhhhh.” I’m not an idiot! It was totally an accident! “An accident?! This isn’t an accident!” So– I purposely closed the door on a towel? “You neeeed to control your temper. Ugh. This is sickening.” It’s a towel!

Right about this point, the volume is getting pretty loud, so my mother comes out to see what’s going on. “What’s going on?” The door won’t open. “Oh my gosh. My towel, that’s my favorite towel. It’s from Bloomingdales.” – “See what you did? You ruined your mother’s favorite towel.” – “How are you going to reimburse us for this?” – It’s a towel. And I didn’t mean to do this. I closed the DOOR on a towel. – “You need to control your temper. You’re always flipping out.” – Flipping out?! Flipping out?! I CLOSED the DOOR with a TOWEL on it! I wasn’t flipping out! There was a towel there! Now the towel is stuck! IT’s NOT THAT COMPLICATED! – “Don’t break anything else!”

I felt like I was in Wonderland. We were shouting about a towel stuck in the door.

Well, this morning my father was still sickened by my behavior and he made a point of “discovering” the damage that had been made to the door frame over years and years of people slamming it. “Oooooh, I’m going to be sick. [Loud, over exaggerated exhaling noises.]” He made sure that I saw him being Mr. Martyr, nailing and hammering the door frame and TAKING OFF THE DOOR. The DOOR. My DOOR. That DOOR is what keeps the psycho killers who come into the house at night from coming up into the upstairs! How am I going to hear the crazed axe murderers coming into our bedrooms now? There’s no DOOR there! That DOOR is my security blanket!!!!!!

In case you can’t remember, Dad, when I was little, I used to hang BELLS on the door and pile bricks in front of it before I went to sleep so that I could hear if insane psychopath killers came in. Even though I lost the bells and the bricks, I’d still like a door there! I WANT MY DOOR BACK! –And for gosh sake! IT WAS A TOWEL! STUCK IN A DOOR!