jamie doom

Directly after work, my parents invited me to eat dinner with them here at my dad’s office, which you know is near the church we attend. I had two hours to spare before church. While I was waiting for dinner to be prepared I stretched out on the recliner in Ben’s office and began reading An American Childhood by Annie Dillard.

It’s very, very good. I read for about forty-five minutes, then grabbed a thirty-minute nap–and had vivid dreams about my own childhood. My mom woke me from images of water spiders and apple tree forts, with some sort of wonderful broccoli and chicken casserole. I ate like I hadn’t eaten since I was ten. I had about four helpings.

I now think that the worst part about being a bachelor, apart from a complete lack of a soul mate, must be lack of casseroles. Bachelorism would be bearable, even quite fulfilling, if I could just have some casseroles every now and again. I just need to be put on some type of casserole schedule.

So we ate, my mom, dad and I–who was still half asleep, and we spoke about the events of the day at perhaps the perfect pitch and tone. The questions coming from my parent’s side of the table weren’t too direct which allowed me to enjoy said casserole without focusing too much on the conversation or the labor of making up respectable adult answers to difficult, responsible– sounding questions. And soon it was time for church, and my dad and I had managed an entire meal without my mocking one of his right wing conspiracy theories or his mocking my trust in the mainstream media. He did mention that my hair was getting a bit long for his liking, but even that went by without too much of a hitch. I didn’t tell him that I was a grown man and didn’t really care at all about his “liking”. Instead we agreed, with my mother’s input, that the next day, instead of cutting my hair, I would simply endeavor to comb it–with a comb before I set off to work. This was a happy compromise, a win/win for all those involved.

Combing my hair–with a comb, something I remember doing when I was child, and even a couple of times in college, certainly would break the monotony of my morning. As an aside I did comb my hair this morning–with a comb, and the results as well as the entire ritual were quite exhilarating. I must say. Combing your hair allows part of your brain a brief period of unselfconscious vanity while the other side of your brain ponders the great problems of the world. This morning I began thinking of new solutions to that whole national debt thing as I squirted a tiny bit of hair gel into the palm of my hand, then combed my hair–with a comb. Bravo, mom and dad!