We are not happy (again)

This is the second time in the past six months that we have been rendered unhappy. The first time was this past winter when we officially joined the ranks of curmudgeons when we turned 55. Now, we find ourselves to be even more unhappy but for an entirely different reason. In a few short days, we will pack our last born child off to college. For the first time in twenty-seven years, their will be no children in residence in our house. (The wife might contest that one still remains).

First, we do not like the fact that there are two rooms in this house for which there is no official use. Well, there is actually. They are officially known as storage rooms for the “stuff” the two adult kids have never taken with them and now stuff the college bound one has decided he has no room for in his dorm room. So, we are the depot where the kids can dump the stuff they don’t have room for plus mooch a free meal and now as the place where the college one can get his laundry done for nothing.

Second, we don’t have anybody to do our yard work, sweep out our garage, wash our car, and generally act as free labor. Now we have to do all this stuff ourselves. Oh, and (even worse) we have to clean out the cat box  AND clean the kitchen! We don’t like this one bit.

Finally, and the worst of all, we have nobody to blame things on. When the dishwasher does not get loaded or unloaded, there will be nobody to point to and yell, “Why didn’t you do that after I told you to?” Nope, we will be the only one in the house. The wife will now yell at us and there will be nobody to shift blame onto. When we come home for lunch, we will be compelled by the wife (“she who must be obeyed” as we told the kids for years) to clean out the cat box before we can have our lunch. That exercise plays havoc on our digestion, by the way.

I see it all now. Twenty seven years of raising kids and they abandon us. We will have to do all this alone and without anybody to shift blame onto. There’s no justice in the world.

Just like the last time we were unhappy, we don’t know why we are writing in the third person plural.


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