Back to reality

Well, my good fortune has shriveled up like an old woman in the sun. My host family returns from vacation tomorrow, sighhhhhhh. I knew the freedom wouldn’t—nay, couldn’t!—last, but the asphyxiating affections return TOO soon. There’s still much to be done. I have yet to throw an impromptu house party or devise a devious plan to shock and horrify the mother upon her return. I don’t like to be rushed with such stratagems; a negligent act of retaliation never satisfies the impulse. You have to go alllllll out. But where was I going with this? Oh ya, so by tomorrow morning the mother will be chirping “Cou Couuuuu” and reoccupying the kitchen like it’s her slice of heaven. The 32 year-old son who still lives at home (fo’ reals) returned yesterday… He’s one dedicated (and old) student! When I saw him sulk into the bathroom this morning with his unkempt hair and oversized glasses, I let out a deep sigh acknowledging the beginning of another round of uncomfortable living. Oddly enough, he seems to have corresponded his sleeping schedule with mine; every morning I see him in the same pitiful, drowsy state with his pjs hanging from his skulking body. Whether it’s 7am or 11am, I awake to the sight of him chugging down some OJ in the kitchen with some insane bed-head hair. It’s a sight to been seen! Although I would have to say that seeing him wish his mother une bonne journée before leaving the house to go to class with his backpack securely strapped to his back is what really makes my day.