A cone, a collar, a few inches taller

I moved back with my parents recently. Oh joy, you say. But actually, there are many benefits to living with your parents, especially ones like mine: a stay-at-home mother who cooks like Emril and a dry-humored father who rolls his eyes at everything, especially that damn espresso that is just never good enough.

First of all, I think my mother actually enjoys doing laundry, because every two weeks she offers to clean my clothes and even stops me from leaving the house so she can "press my blouse." (I would have just said iron my shirt, but she's a classy broad.) Second, my father is quite fancy. He loves going out to dinners, nice dinners, which is a perk for me and whichever friend I have over at the time. There is not a restaurant in Orange County that he hasn't visited. And every time he lets them know exactly what he thought of the experience. I keep telling him he needs to create a Yelp account, but he doesn't listen. He's too busy drinking wine and watching 24, Law and Order, Monk, or one of the hundreds of DVDs he owns. But my most favorite are the conversations my mother has, either with me, my dad, or herself. She is such a hoot. You should meet her.

She's good at offering perspective on all matters. My dog has mites. Apparently, according to the vet, all dogs have mites but Padme's are concentrated in a certain area, which has resulted in a chewed off, Australia cut-out on her ass. We got all the pills, medicinal baths, and, yes, Elizabethan, cone collar (pictured above). Our other dog, Phoebe, who is such a Q-tip, really hates the collar. I don't think Padme really notices when she has it on. She's just really confused at why she can't chew more of her fur to resemble a larger continent. But the Phebester notices. Normally the two of them play tug of war and all that and get along great. But with the collar, Phoebe becomes a maniac. Pad is just jumping around like everything's normal, and Phoebe freaks out, gnashing her teeth and the whole bit. We had just broken up a rumble between the dogs and my mother and I were in the kitchen when she, in all seriousness, empathized with the fluffy Phoebe:

"Well, I can understand. I wouldn't want to play with someone who had that on their head either."

I love my mom.

(Padme's patch is not shown. She is embarrassed and wishes not to reveal her lower half to the public until the hair has grown back. She's not Britney.)