My parents are a freaking riot

Tuckered out from copious hijinks, the Turner clan takes a breather on a bird poop-splattered bench.

Honestly, I couldn't love them more. (See pictures for visual details.)

They called me up at around 11. Naturally, I was still asleep. "We're turning on to Poplar!" my mom said as I rubbed my eyes and tried to find some pants. "OK, I'll come down to the curb so you can see me to pull in the drive," I said, cursing my terrible sleep habits. And by the time I got down my stairs, they were already hopping out of the truck, walking my way. I was sleep drunk (not actually drunk, thankfully) and I'm sure I looked pretty rough, since the night before I had left my mascara on when I went to bed. At 4 a.m.

They came in and surveyed the place and had really nice things to say about it. (Yes, I still crave the Parental Seal of Approval.) They watched TV while I got ready and then we headed downtown to the trolley. We detoured at Forrest Park so my dad could take pictures and read the plaques. I chased a squirrel. A couple of bums slept under the pavilion.

I was thinking we'd catch the trolley near the Orpheum and ride it around the loop for a bit to the Spahetti Warehouse to eat lunch, but the trolley conductor let us off at a stop that was two blocks from the restaurant instead of the stop right on the line (why? I have no idea).

My mom and I split a bottle of the house cabernet sauvignon and I sipped and listened as my dad told me about the night he came to bed and my mom was already asleep, snoring, and it sounded like a deep growling from within her, and she growled "good-bye" all evil and shit — but still asleep — and it scared my dad so bad he prayed right then and there because he thought she might have been battling demons in her sleep. My mom was sort of offended that he thought she might not be able to ward the demons off on her own.

And, of course, being tipsy by this time, I had to bring up my favorite freaky subject: lucid dreaming. And my dad, predictably enough (because I had a dream about this very conversation about a year ago), said to be careful with that sort of thing because the spirit world is full of holes and there are always demons and evil forces looking for a way into your heart and you have to fight them at all costs.

It was at that point that I began to wonder if all the people around us were totally freaked out by the crazies with the spirit/demon talk. And then I remembered that I'm sort of in the minority around here by not believing in that shit, so I supposed it wasn't too scary for any eavesdroppers.

We ate our food, finished our wine, tipped exactly 20 percent, and went back into the sunlight, my mom and me a little buzzed, and my dad making fun of us every time our words came out a little more streamlined than we'd intended.

Figuring it wasn't worth another dollar apiece to catch the trolley back since it had only brought us four or so blocks, we hoofed it back to the truck, parked at the Mud Island monorail lot, and took the monorail across to the museum.

We last visited Mud Island when the park and museum there were relatively new. I think I was 10 or so. I remember I was wearing neon green bicycle shorts with a tie-dyed shirt and hot pink sunglasses and a bright green scrunchie. Oh, and white Keds. The Memphis Belle was still there, and the Riverwalk concrete channels were practically white from lack of age.

We talked a lot about vacations past, and they reminded me of stuff I'd totally forgotten about, like the time when we went to St. Louis for a few days and walked all over the city trying to find the zoo. And the time that we went to Atlanta and swung up through Gatlinburg on the way back, our original plan being that I could go tour UTK while we were close, but we kept putting it off until it was time to come home, because I didn't really want to go to school there anyway.

It's weird the details we forget.

Anyway, they made it back to Saltillo just fine. And we're planning the next visit.