Friday
3:00 p.m. After a quick afternoon nap, I attack the apartment with vacuum, paper towels, and Fantastick, to make sure it sparkles by the time my parents arrive. While I await their arrival, I turn on the tube. I put on the Portuguese channel so I can impress them with the fact that even my TV viewing is intellectual. But when they don't show up at the agreed time, I start flipping back and forth to MTV.
4:00 p.m. They come. Late. But they notice the tidy apartment and commend me on my cleaning skills. Are further impressed by the story of how I unclogged the toilet that morning with the plunger (thank you Mom for those Ms. Fix-It lessons). Then they explain their tardiness -- they spent the afternoon in nearby Plymouth Notch, Vt., at the Calvin Coolidge homestead, and apparently the home of the 30th President was so thrilling, they could not tear themselves away. In fact, they recommend my friends and I take a road trip there.
My dad is sporting a strange looking stain on his T-shirt, which turns out to be the result of his attempt to open a can of Coolidge's favorite drink -- Moxie soda. My father is not known for his dexterity.
5:30 p.m. At their hotel. My dad changes into his "evening wear," which consists of a black T-shirt and a pair of mint green shorts with pink-red lobsters on them. Maybe it's because I inherited some of his wild fashion genes, but I have actually given my pre-trip approval to these shorts. In the hallway of the hotel on our way to dinner, a woman stops my dad and says, "Great shorts! Those are really one of a kind!"
"They certainly are," my mother says. "Thank goodness."
We go to Sweet Tomatoes. Our server delivers a carafe of water to our table with a whole lemon placed in the bottle's opening. For several minutes, there is debate about the meaning of said lemon. Has the lemon been perforated in the kitchen so that its juice is dripping down into the water? Are we not supposed to drink the water until the waitress removes the fruit? Or perhaps it is just there for decoration? With my encouragement (I like my water to have some lemony-zest), my father takes his not-so-sharp dinner knife at the lemon and attempts to cut wedges for us all, with moderate success and a bit of mess. Later, the server informs us that the lemon is intended to just rest on the top of the carafe as a stopper of sorts. Oh. Of course.
I ask for news from home. They take turns dispensing the earth-shattering events that have taken place in my absence. "John Doe is getting knee surgery," my mom says, then passes it over to my dad, "Your turn." "We're having the front steps rebuilt. Your turn." "Jane Doe is packing for college. Your turn." "We're selling the house. Your turn." My dad throws this last one in just to see if I'm paying attention.
7 p.m. Overlooking the Green. "Abs, it doesn't get any better than this," my dad says. This statement is repeated throughout the weekend and is often followed by a comment about his desire to retire to these parts.
8 p.m. The Solas concert. My mom strikes up a conversation with the guy sitting next to her, who it turns out is from India and has only been in Hanover for four days. So of course, my mom insists he join us for cake after the concert and we have an enlightening time talking to this fun guy from a country half way around the world.
I arrive home, thinking about how outings with my parents can so often get surreal. I ignore the calls of my roommates to join them at Tri-Kap, and head for my bed.
Saturday
8:15 a.m. My father knocks on my door, sporting a pair of wild running shorts and all set to go for the 3K DREAM race we have decided to start our morning with. I am not quite as awake, and send him downstairs to see if the soda machine sells any Gatorade. It doesn't. So I slide into my more tasteful pair of running shorts, grab my knee brace and trudge out to the green. My father is kind enough not to kick my butt, which he could easily do. Afterwards, we go for a cool-down run on Main Street, still wearing our race numbers and feeling pretty darn special.
4:30 p.m. After touring the organic farm, eating at the '03 barbecue, and perusing the Dartmouth Bookstore, my dad and I head out for some whiffle ball on the green. I blitz out to my friends, informing them of our plans, but apparently, all my friends are either out having too much fun with their own parents, or are not enticed by the prospect of a little childhood fun. So my dad and I take turns pitching and hitting, but we soon grow bored and retire to a bench to read The New York Times.
After voting on Jewel of India for dinner, my dad walks off to the car to inset more money in the meter. He returns wearing a bright blue shirt with big black flowers. This shirt does not have my approval, but my father is convinced he looks cool
9 p.m. We walk to Ben and Jerry's. I am adventurous and opt for "Festivus," a delicious brand new flavor of cinnamon ice-cream with pieces of gingerbread cookie and caramel swirls. My mom, on the other hand, is not so adventurous. She gets chocolate.
Just as we are about to drive away after the ice-cream, I spot one of my professors walking down the road, and foolishly mention this to my parents. "Abby, introduce us!" So I fling open the car door and call "Professor!" practically knocking over said teacher and her family. Then my mom and dad throw open their doors and hop out of the car as well, like the clowns in the old fire drill routine, and it's a good old parent-teacher conference right there on the sidewalk. My parents are pleased.
I am sound asleep by 11 p.m., even though (as I am told later) my apartment is rowdy and rocking with the sleepover antics of my roommate's younger sisters.
Sunday
11 a.m. At the Food Co-op, my parents buy four packages of Golden Fruit raisin biscuits, which apparently are unavailable in my hometown. My mom figures this will tide her over a while, and my dad can always get more in August when he comes to take me home. After grocery shopping, we go to the Robert Frost statue and have a photo shoot.
2 p.m. My dad pinches my cheek once again in yet another attempt to embarrass me. "That's it, time to go!" I announce and march them to the car.
I attempt to get some work done after they leave. And fail. Instead, I think about how nice my bed looks, and decide to call it a night a little before 8 p.m. I am just drifting off when the phone rings. It's the parents, they're home safely, and had a wonderful time. Me too.
