My father calls me in to the den. He wants to talk to me. “I think your dog is eating my Mallomars.”
I am silent. #1 – I’m worried that he hates Vito so much. #2 – I’m the one who’s really eating the Mallomars. You see, I made a list of all the things I could be happy about, and unlimited Mallomar eating was at the top of it. I started with just one or two, but then I discovered that if I ate seven of them in the middle of the night, I would sleep like a baby. And it looks like now my supply is in jeopardy.
“Well, Myra, how do you explain the half empty box and the crumbs all over the floor?” he inquires in his sardonic tone.
“It can’t be Vito. Vito doesn’t leave crumbs.”
“Very funy, Myra. How much is your dog costing you?”
“You don’t have a job. I want to know what your plans are for the future.”
My mother storms in at that very moment with newly dyed hair a bizarre shade of orange. “That’s enough, Ivan. Money, money, money. It’s a sickness with you.”
My father mimes a zipping of his mouth and starts humming Dixie, while my mother continues screaming. “Can you shut up about money?”
“Are you finished, Linda?”
My mother continues…and it’s like everything goes silent to me. Like I’m watching a cartoon. My mother is a big bird with tropical orange hair, squawking, and my father – a big, hole-in-sweatpants-wearing rhinocerous humming Dixie.
I start to wonder if subconsciously I’m not married because I’m terrified of being stuck in this. If I had money, I would go to therarpy and inquire further. But for now, all of my happiness is tied to that box of Mallomars, and I hope he doesn’t hide it.