Bridges.

I've been trying to process my parents visit. I don't remember visits with my parents being this... difficult, for lack of a better word.

Of course, the last time they visited, I had lots of percoset and dilaudid, so maybe, I shouldn't trust my memory.

Just maybe.

I want them to have a good time when they're here. I want them to enjoy themselves. I just don't know how to merge my desires with, y'know, reality.

Amazingly, it took my mom two days to give me the head-tilt-"How-are-you?" Note: don't start conversations that way.

I spent days and days and days, cleaning our house, setting up our guest room, planning and researching, and hoping. And Mom and Dad stayed at the Comfort Inn ("We don't want to make you uncomfortable."). Dad got impatient with everything we planned. Sightseeing Oregon's beautiful waterfalls like a drive-by attack? A short walk on a flat path through a beautiful park? Looking into pioneer history? Ashland's antiques?

I finally broke down and asked, "What do YOU like to do on vacations?"

This, I asked of a man who went to Bermuda to play bridge. And that was all he did.

He looked at me and grimaced, and ground out, "Horseback riding." Which, if you met him--you know was sarcasm. Thanks Dad.

It wasn't all bad. I mean, I love my folks. I think I was just hoping for too much. They hadn't seen me in almost a year, and as previously noted, that one time they've seen me in the past year and a half, I was stoned as all freaking hell on prescription pain killers, so where on Earth did I think insta-bonding would come from? You think maybe I put too much weight on My Parents Will Love Me More If I Entertain Them Really Well? Maybe?

Nah.

On the bright side: I now know how to play bridge. A really really lot of bridge. Hours and hours of bridge.

Because that's what my dad does on vacation.