You party hard. You party too hard. Give me my parents back.
For the last two years I believe you have been slipping something into my parent’s boat drinks. There is just no other explanation for the behavior exhibited by my 40-year-old mother and 43-year-old father, a couple who, for the 22 years I have previously known them, wanted nothing to do with anything besides take-out Chinese food and the television on weekends.
But since they found you they have taken a whole new approach to life. They have taken to replacing the letter “f” with “ph” in all their messages, as in “Looking forward to a phun weekend with phabulous phriends.” They post embarrassing photographs on their Facebook pages, like the one of my dad placing his tongue on a naked mermaid statue’s breast at a Jimmy Buffett concert. And they recently got matching tattoos. My mother’s is a mermaid; my father’s a topless mermaid, which he proudly says looks like Mom.
We mustn’t forget the trophies they cherish so deeply, the homemade plaques with parrots and tropical flowers displayed in the living room. Or the new interior decorating scheme of my childhood home, complete with a seashell nailed to the middle of our mantle, or the framed parrot artwork and mini-bar added to the dining room.
How is it, Parrotheads, that you convinced my 40-year-old mother and 43-year-old father to preside over an entire organization of 60- and 70-somethings looking for a good time? Why is it you all think it’s funny when a 70-year-old man gropes my ass at the beach? Yes, I suppose his intentions were harmless, but all the same, it grossed me out in a way that I’ve never been grossed out before.
You are not welcomed at my house again for Thanksgiving. I did not enjoy being relegated to the children’s table with my boyfriend while random old people took over the dining table. Furthermore, I don’t want to watch you fondle one another after too much rum during the Texas/Texas A&M football game ever again.
How much longer will I be pressured to do the shot block just one more time with my dad? How many more photos of my parents making out at a Trop Rock concert must I endure? Their busy party schedule puts my undergrad days to shame and makes me feel ten times worse about how lame my life has been since I started law school.
This has got to come to an end sooner than later. I refuse to allow anything Key West-, boat drink-, Kenny Chesney-, parrot-, or palm tree-related to make its way into my future wedding. Over my dead body will there be a conga line to a Jimmy Buffett song at any important event I am attending.
I’ve had it with you, Parrotheads. I’m sick of hearing “Margaritavile” on replay and I am tired of not being able to locate my mom and dad because they are too busy partying it up. Enough is enough. Please find some other unsuspecting middle-aged couple to charm. I want my plain, old, boring parents back.