You may have picked up (with your whiling investigative skills) that I am 30 years of age and…ahem…living at home. I can explain.
I’m a filmmaker…anybody in the arts wouldn’t need further explanation, but I’ll elaborate for those of you who had the good sense to get normal jobs. I’m trying to get a feature film made in Cyprus. This could be a very lucrative venture, but until it becomes lucrative, it yields nothing. So the only way I can afford to do this is by moving in with my parents. True story. For the record, I’ve been on my own since the age of 17, so this is going to be an interesting adjustment. And just as a reminder for those of you who missed last week’s episode, my parents are Greek Cypriots, which pretty much makes them the gold medalists in the parenting Olympics…this is not a good thing.
I’m a filmmaker…anybody in the arts wouldn’t need further explanation, but I’ll elaborate for those of you who had the good sense to get normal jobs. I’m trying to get a feature film made in Cyprus. This could be a very lucrative venture, but until it becomes lucrative, it yields nothing. So the only way I can afford to do this is by moving in with my parents. True story. For the record, I’ve been on my own since the age of 17, so this is going to be an interesting adjustment. And just as a reminder for those of you who missed last week’s episode, my parents are Greek Cypriots, which pretty much makes them the gold medalists in the parenting Olympics…this is not a good thing.
Example: one fine morning I saunter past the bathroom (there’s only one in the house, another fun challenge) and I see my father engaged in the most bizarre activity. Before I continue, I feel that you may need a visual: I call my dad ‘Humpty-Dumpty’, not to his face of course, although it really is a term of endearment, he’s kind of short and round…hence the sophisticated nickname. He is also one of those fortunate men who never went bald and not only did he keep the hair on his head, but on his eyebrows as well. In fact, I think his eyebrows are in a race to see which one will get to his chin first…I think the left one’s winning. They’re long and black and bushy…it’s like living with Martin Scorcese. I never considered how he groomed these bushels of hair, but today I found out…
He brushes them…with a toothbrush…MY toothbrush!!!
Me: DAD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!
Dad: What?!
Me: That’s my toothbrush!!
I snatch it from his hands and start picking at it.
Dad: No it’s not!
Me: Yes it is! It’s pink and it’s the only one with a cap on it! None of the other toothbrushes have caps! You would have to pick it up and remove the cap so you can use it!! Gross Dad!!
Dad: Well how am I supposed to know that was yours?!
(I thought I just answered that question)
Me: How long have you being using this?
With this he trundles out the bathroom muttering to himself.
I now keep my toothbrush in my bedroom. In a toiletry bag…on the far end of a shelf…in the cupboard.
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