Run, Lola, Run.

Nothing better than having your lover back in your arms.

Same saying goes to when your best friend (or in the term lover, used very loosely) has made his way back through the hallowed – still vicious – halls of, no, not Yale university. But of the dick-created school that is known as high school (better yet, hell).

But, do ignore my patented Hell referral. It’s much overused. I’ve no imagination to claim a much more potent name for said high school.

But back to the point at right hand, having Matt back was like drinking cold water after going on a water-famine, or like eating food after starving yourself, riding on a rollercoaster, finishing an essay, not falling down the stairs on a snowy day.

Basically.

It was damned great.

I, personally, couldn’t be happier.

His mom, on the other hand..

“And she was all,’ like oh my God, you’re not even home for an hour and it already looks like someone killed a pig on top of a moving saw!’ and I was like, ‘mom, get over it,’ and she was all – and mind you, she looked like a spot of blood – ‘Go. To. your. Room.’ I mean seriously?”

Nodding my consent at his, ‘I mean seriously?’ to continue.

“It was just so weird. She’s such a motha grouch.”

“I know.” Simplicity.

“It was also strange. She smelled like Anai Anais—“

“How d—“

“I’m ashamed, I shouldn’t know that.”

“No y—“

“Its insane, why does my mom insist on bringing me down the perfume aisle, anyway?”

“I d—“

“Its insane. She also likes taking me down to the womanlies section, did you know that? Oh, hey, what was that crash?”

“Act—“

“I also know all the different kinds of razors they sell at Wal-Mart, also.”

“W—“

“I’ve got to go, thanks for listening. I appreciate it.”

“Ye—“

I’m one again cut off as he ends the call. Keeping the phone nestled between my shoulder and ear for half a second more, I sneer at the phone and press the, ‘End’.

“I love how you and Matt seem to have such an amazing communication ability.” My mother states from the hallway, appearing to have snuck in on the conversation on the receiving side.

“Shut up. He kept interrupting me.”

“I’m sure he did. You’re making dinner tonight.”

“What?”

“Its lasagna, I’d get started now.”

“Mom—“

“Ingredients are already set up, all you have to do, well you know,”

“Hey, now—“

“Go on, its already two, we need it ready beforehand.”

“Why?”

“Because, my gosh, Lola, do you ever listen to me?”

“Ye—well, no, but—“

“Dinner won’t make itself.”

Approximately there must have been about twenty bags on the oak-wood kitchen table, spilling its contents (cold meats, bread, soup can –henceforth the crashings) onto the linoleum floor – God only knows the last time we washed that floor – the cans had made their way from the table bottom to the wedge under the fridge.

“Could you put away all the groceries, too? Thanks.”

Right, of course, I can do that. Its not like you’re not doing anything super important tht you can’t get off your stupid butt and help me. Yeah, sure. I’ve got nothing better to do with my time than put away all the groceries and make dinner, stupid, old, cow, ha—

Going through the bags one at a time, I put away the cranberries, cherries, lettuce heads, raspberries, Life cinnamon cereal, Froot Loops, soups, rice, chocolate (Lindor, for your information, someone’s planning on a junk night) and various other items that would just make this families’ footprint ten times bigger and heavier.

Dinner around here was never a huge affair, with the family eating in separate rooms and sometimes eating entirely different things.

Half the time, the family won’t even see each other except in the mornings and on Thursday night when the entire family is forced to play Taboo, a long time standing tradition that was forced upon us from when Grandpa was still alive.

So alas, we were rather lapse in some main areas: family, and religion.

Rather large aspects of life, but all the same, we were as strong as an Amazon.

In theory.

Sometimes.

Depending on the who, when, where, why, and how, really.

But really.

“Where are the freakin’ pans, mom?” I yell past the sound of whatever TV show was playing.

“In the cupboard!” She calls back, her voice blending into the sounds of the TV.

“Which cupboard?”

“The one with the pans.”

“Which cupboard?”

At this point, mom’s voice is more than sugarcoated with annoyance, “the bottom one!”

“I ask again—“

No answer comes but instead replacing the anticipated voice, was the sound of socks tapping along the carpeted floor.

Passing around the corner and into the dimly lit kitchen my mom stalks past me, her Anais Anais perfume filtering air particles in my nose, she bends down to open up the cupboard, pulling out an almost-close rusty pot and places it on the counter with a stinkeye –someone’s grouchy – and once again, turns the corner so all that’s left is the pot on the counter and the drifting smell of her perfume.

“Thanks!”

Not really having any idea of what to make for dinner, lest know how to make it, I start sifting through the various items we have stocked in our cupboards, pushing away taco kits, soup cans, premade mashed potatoes and other things that could potentially set off my hunger.

Deciding on perogies and fries – ever the healthy-freak family – for about a week – just call us the Leftover Family – setting the oven for appropriate heat and pouring the ‘ogies into the pan, the clicks of the frozen packets bounce through the small kitchen, along with the fries, I set on the task of waiting for the ancient stove to be ready.

The heat puffs up at my face whenever I check the oven, a cloudy haze of heat waves attack my eyes and leave me breathing deeply into uncontaminated heated air.

A nice lungful of frozen ice. What a smell, what a smell.