Home Alone

I came home to Alpharetta this weekend. And it is very evident that I'm home. So I decided to make a list of things that describe my visits home from college:


- My parents seem to like me a lot more than they ever did when I was in grade school.
- We do whatever I want, and Bob even lets me pick the movie rentals.
- We get to eat my fave foods.
- I get to experience the frequent symphony of Bob and dogs snoring together.
- My mom breaks out the Easter candy early for me.
- My parents refuse to let me sleep until I wake up on my own, insisting that I've been sleeping "foreveerrrrrr" and then list everything they want us to do that day before I've opened my eyes.
- My dogs are happy to see me, and forget that I am home every time I'm out of view so I get greeted with the same enthusiasm every time they see me again.


None of these are bad things, by the way. I feel quite loved when I come home.


Disclaimer: Bob is my biological father. If you've met us in person, this is quite evident. I am most definitely my father's daughter. I called him Dad until about my freshman year of college. I started calling him Bob on the common occasion that he was a pain in the neck. I'd say, with all the respect of a loving, obedient daughter, "Bob. Quit it," or more affectionately, "Bob. You're being a pain in the [neck]." Since his episodes of being a smartass are decently frequent, I began to call him "Bob" more often than "Dad," and now only resort to "Dad" when I have car trouble and need to pull the damsel-in-distress card. It has come up before that calling him "Bob" might come across as him being a step-father, but in fact I'm convinced that I'm about 80% Bob and 20% Mom. There is zero suspicion of the milkman.