Typical

The Rumba buzzes over the wood floor, well actually the tile painted to resemble “weathered gray #3” wood. The dog sleeps on his memory foam bed. The clock in the kitchen sits stagnate at 5:43, AM or PM, no one really remembers anymore, but a few like to claim they saw it stop. And who would ever be up at 5:43 am?

The family sits in the living room. The mom in one corner with her hair wrapped up in a towel, she has just gotten out of the shower. The two brothers sit across from each other and both place their feet on the coffee table covered with unopened New Yorkers that the oldest brother claims he will read one day. The dad reclines so much into the couch that his chin falls into his chest. Black plastic glasses, a little smudged; rest on his rather prominent nose. The daughter sits in the corner of the sectional couch nesting herself between bright orange and turquoise blue geometrically patterned pillows. She picks at her once cerulean now grayish nail polish.

“Really?”

The oldest boy responds, “Yes attorney”

“Attorney general?”

The mom as she fiddles with her towel adds, “Should I refer to you as attorney?”

“Really”

Giving up she removes the towel completely and drops from her hair fling onto the varnished credenza, “I will refer to you as attorney from this day forward”

“You can call me whatever you want”

“Butthead”

“Like asswipe”

“Asswipe”

The dad blinks his eyes open and asks, “Can I call you AL”

Out of tune and probably pitch, the younger of the two boys and his father chime, “You can call me Al”

The daughter finally peels of one long strip from her left pointer finger, “Oh my God. You really screwed up that song”

The eldest boy now flips through the March 24th edition of the New Yorker and looks and pretends to read, “That’s the worst singing in the history of singing.”

The girl lest out a cackle, “You didn’t think it could get any worse but”

“But it did”

“What’s the opposite of a platinum record?”

“Poop record.”

“Shit record.”

The dog chomps on a ratty looking bunny toy. Squeak. Squeak.

The mom has now decided to put her hair in a bun, and in doing so splatters the painting behind her with small droplets, “So Nog has a boyfriend, Maile”

The eldest son stops pretend reading (the light in the living room at night is not condusive to reading) as the Rumba docks itself, “Docking, docking, docked”

The girl now going at her right pinky finger responds, “Uh huh. She was texting him while she was here”

The younger of the two brothers corrects, “All day. All day”

The eldest son starts cracking his knuckles, “She was?” The New Yorker laying flat on his lap.

Squeak. Squeak.

The younger brother looks down at his feet, “All day.”

The mom looks over at the dog that has given up his toy for his tail, “Where does he live?”

The dad now fully alert after yet another catnap, “Who is this guy?”

The daughter reaches for another pillow and puts it on top of her feet, “Something with a C.”

The younger son starts running his hands through his hair as he is often wont to do, “Charlie.”

“He’s going to move to Seattle”

The girl worries the hard as plastic coating on her right middle finger now, “He was a philosophy major”

The dog’s bone shaped nametag, complete with and address and phone number, clanks around in his modern gray ceramic water bowl.

“I think the dog needs water.”

“I just filled his….water thing.” Mumbles the dad as he awakens yet again.

The older son bites his thumbnail, “Is he working in Seattle?”

“He wants more food he’s drinking water now.”

“He’s doing something.”

Another nail needs stripping, “Yeah he’s graduating.”

“He’s licking his food bowl.”

The mom picks at her pajama pant, “Oh he’s a year older?”

“Yeah he’s a year older”

With a chuckle the eldest says, “Philosophy major Princeton, surprised he’s not working on Wall Street.”

The younger brother furls his brow, “That’s a joke?”

“Good Old Boy’s Club. Adam Cohen, haven’t you read it?”

She removes the piece of Boton rice that fell on her lap during dinner, “What’s he going to do in Seattle”

“Don’t know”

The jets from the Costco Jacuzzi the family bought 4 years ago runs soothingly in the backyard, “Philosophize.”

“What do you do with a philosophy major?”

The oldest son rolls his eyes, “You do whatever.”

She collects the nail polish dust and brushes it onto the carpet, “Just ponder existence.”

The younger brother corrects his posture; “Well what do you with a film major?”

“Well at least with a film major you can make films. With a philosophy major you can’t ahhhh make philosophy. You can do something with film, you can’t do much with philosophy.”

While staring at the dog those stares back, “He can probably talk to dogs and stuff”

“You’re better off making a time machine and going back to…”

“Plato…”

“Your butt.” And at that all the nail polish has been stripped from her fingers.

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