I opened the refrigerator the other day and glaring at me from the bottom shelf was a clear, 2-liter bottle of Coke.
The contents couldn’t have filled a medicine dropper.
Yes, I live in Teenagerville, where whimsy reigns and logic wanes.
Empty containers are returned to the icebox. Trash begs to be taken out, and nobody notices. Knives dipped in peanut butter never get wiped before entering the sink.
This may be the only house where showers start at 10:45 p.m., just late enough for already-in-bed parents to hear the water trickle downstairs.
Upstairs, where our kids reside, the thermostat is routinely askew four to five degrees, and light bulbs burn long after they’ve helped someone see.
And what teenagers let you in on their plans?
“Dad, you may want to put your pants back on. Tina just pulled up outside. We’re going to play X-Box.”
I’ve lived with at least one of these creatures for going on seven years. The youngest turns 20 in 2015.
Give me strength.