My brother Corey is about as weird as me, so when I’m like, "Hey, put this giraffe mask on and sit in the tub with a worn copy of Sleeping with the Enemy," he asks no questions.
We were having a lot of fun with this at my grandma’s house until my aunt Sharon got all agitated and kicked us out. I think she thinks I’m stealing heirlooms to support my heroin addiction and all the bastards I’ve birthed that I keep locked in a closet in the basement. She kept slamming doors and pacing around, jabbing the imaginary watch on her wrist. Later, she called to apologize, saying that she just wanted us to leave so my grandma would eat her lunch, that my grandma didn’t want to be rude and eat in front of us. My grandma always eats her lunch in front of us, so that was the dumbest excuse ever. She’s so so bizarre, she should be made into a movie. Oh wait, I think that idea was already used.
It’s nice to know that I’m 28-years-old now and still not to be trusted.
When I was in high school, I filmed every video project I was assigned in my grandparent’s basement, projects about Longfellow, Canterbury Tales, and a short film I had to make for a writing class. Nothing that involved taking sledgehammers to walls or defecating in corners, we promise Sharon. It was too hard to do it at my own house, with two younger brothers acting like rejects and flipping off the camera every chance they got. My grandparents would always be fine with this, my group and I weren’t exactly scripting "Keggers on Film" and we would always clean up after ourselves. We were teenagers, not hoodlums, after all. But Sharon, who lived there back then too, would get so nervous. She would stand at the top of the steps and yell things like, "ARE YOU ALMOST DONE???" so that we would have to rewind the tape and re-shoot the scene, not wanting to include the unsavory banshee shrill in the background.
Her possession of that house is really insane, and I always feel unwelcome there. I shouldn’t, though; it’s my grandma’s house. Even before my Pappap died, Sharon was so controlling. He would let my friends and I hang out in the game room but she would pace around upstairs, huffing and sighing throatily by the open basement door.
Maybe she’s afraid her extensive porn collection will be unearthed. If she’s worried we’ll stumble upon the mafia-esque arsenal of fire arms they have stashed around the house, already did that.
I texted my mom after Corey and I conceded to the not-so-subtle attempts to evict us and said, "Sharon ruins everything," to which my mom was all, "No shit." We’re going back another day, when it’s guaranteed she won’t be there. That’s when we’ll break out the hookers and cocaine.