The Future?

Well, lately it appears that I have been too busy focusing on the little things: not being one of those crazy ladies that refers to her pets as her children, showering daily, complaining about how they changed the line-up of my shows (who really wants to watch the Andy Griffith show for an hour at 10 pm?), trying not to eat my weight in lean cuisines every week, etc. to really take notice of my parents' new hobbies. Now, they've been showing an interest in all sorts of new things for a couple of years now. I think it's the empty nest created by my youngest sister's move to college that got them started. And, a lot of their habits still seem normal. My dad likes to watch birds. Sure, I worried when he asked for a gun for father's day to shoot at the squirrels that came near his birds, but it still seemed ok. My mother began monogramming everything in sight. Is it a bit unexpected to have your name or initials on all of your towels, pajamas, dishrags, purses, earrings, scarves, and bedsheets? Sure, but at least you know what's yours. They have both become rabid Auburn football fans. They usually attend every home game and about half of the away games. They even have a whole new set of tailgating friends that they spend every pregame with. Of course, no one else has actually met these tailgating friends, mainly because my parents are super secretive about it and only talk about it amongst themselves in whispers, but that could be great. But, then my dad bought a new shirt. It's blue, button-down, and coverd in martini glasses. This seemed normal enough at first. If there's anything my father loves as much as Auburn and our family, it's probably gin. His secretary has had the same gift bag in her desk for six years. Every Christmas, birthday, and boss's day, she goes to the liquor store, buys a bottle of gin, puts it in the bag, gives it to my father, he says thanks, and then he hands her back the bag for next time. Well, he wore the shirt for a week straight. In the words of my sister's boyfriend, Gee Mr. Mills, I don't think I've seen you in anything else since you went to Graceland. (Yes, this is where it gets interesting.) My parents spent their 29th wedding anniversary in Memphis, Tennessee at the Peabody Hotel because my mother thinks it's hilarious when the ducks walk through the lobby. While in town, they decided to visit Graceland, as everyone should. And apparently, while they were there, they met the man who designed all of Elvis's clothes and stage costumes. This same man designed my dad's martini shirt. Well, you might be thinking, Elvis was pretty good-looking for awhile, that doesn't sound so bad. But, I must remind you that Elvis has been dead for over 25 years. Anyone still living who made his clothes would be responsible for white leather, gold studs, and possibly velour. This is late stage, died on a toilet Elvis. I don't know what other outfits he might have in store for my father... And for father's day, my dad asked my sister to go to a movie. He asked her if she wanted to see Batman Begins of The Perfect Man. My sister, thinking that it was father's day and my dad should get what he wanted picked, obviously, Batman Begins. Which, apparently, really upset my father. He wanted to see The Perfect Man. And, he wanted to see it because he's become a huge Hilary Duff fan. After a few cocktails one night, he admitted how much he loved Raise Your Voice on video on demand. And, it has nothing to do with the fact that Hilary Duff is pretty; he really likes the positive message about believing in yourself. What happened to the man who used to let me see Aliens and Midnight Run when my mother was out of town? My mother, on the other hand, has become an avid knitter. Only, she's been knitting so much that she's run out of people to give her knitting to. And, this has led to the army of ducks in her guest room. Some are yellow, some are white, some have hair, some have green eyes, some have blue. Regardless, there are more knitted ducks in that room than I have ever seen congregated together in one place. (Which, I suppose, prior to this, was never more than 1.) They stare up at you with knotty eyes and blank faces. (They don't have mouths after all, just beaks.) And there are tons of them. Also, somewhere beneath all the ducks, is her secret stash of grandchild knitting - three of everything, blankets, little sweaters, slippers. It's a slightly terrifying venture. And, all of this begs the question, if you can't help but turn into your parents, what lies ahead of me? Of course, my friend Jeff reminds me that at least I'm not turning into his mom. When the local news interrupted the U.S. Open coverage for the Scrushy verdict, his mother, an avid tennis fan, called not only the local NBC affiliate to bitch them out for taking away her match, but also the national office in New York. And, I suppose that I should also go ahead and be grateful that my mother hasn't yet started hanging her own typewritten signs everywhere like my grandmother does. (For example: only human waste and toilet paper in the commode, do no flush kotex, paper towels, cigarette butts, papers, candy, or small creatures. That's what greets everyone in the lake house bathroom.) It could always be worse.