Visitation Rights

I live roughly 3,500 miles away from my parents.

While I of course miss them, the vast distance is largely accidental. I am a big fan of the Northeast, and if you want to blame anyone for how far away that is from Central Mexico, I would point the finger at tectonic plates.

That said, the amount of time it takes to travel between Boston and Queretaro is not without its strategic advantages.

Take, as an example, my little brother. He is a resident of the state of Texas, which sits a mere 1,200 miles from our hometown. Occasionally, he will receive a phone call from my Dad's cell phone, who would him that they were out for a Sunday drive, decided why not, and now found themselves at the border, on their way to visit him, and would be arriving in a couple of hours.

Panic would naturally ensue.

Because I live so far away, I believed myself exempt from these surprise visits from the parental regime. Such a long trip would require time and planning. My parents would have no choice but to give me plenty of notice -- I imagined this would, at the very least, be a week.

Conveniently, Operation: Obliterate All Signs of Being a Twenty-Something Living in a 21st Century American City has a timetable of one week, carefully calculated by the best engineers and scientists America has to offer. It is fool-proof. A week is just enough time to mop, vacuum, dust, scrub, clean, and get rid of the bodies. Just enough.

Except when my parents call me and tell me they'll be here in a couple of days.

I received their call on Sunday. They should be here juuuuuust about any minute now.

I did what I could under the new time frame. I believe the Operation, although hastily executed, has been largely successful. Now I know that I really should have gotten rid of the bodies first, because I had to do all the other things again. I would love to double-check but I don't have time.

Unfortunately, nothing could be done about what's in the closet, behind the suits. I pray they never go in there.

If they do, avenge me.