Gaaaaah! If I don't grow an ulcer this week, it will be a bloody miracle. Since I was a child, I've always held radically different ideas, interests and opinions (and not just for the sake of being difficult, I swear) from my family. My aunt and I have always joked that she'd swear I am her child, but for the fact that she watched me come into this world. The fact is that in twenty-mrrmmmrph years of life, I haven't been able to learn how best to deal with my parents. Each time they come out, hope springs eternal that one of the following will happen:
a) S. and I will morph into an early-risin', backpackin', health-food eatin' (g-dropping) folks who enjoy long uphill treks, snowshoes, and bathing in ice water with biodegradable all-purpose soap when possible.
b) They will suddenly begin to appreciate the subtle charms of visiting a museum (instead of tramping around outside, complaining about the fog) having a two-hour dinner with four people or less, or become open to the possibility of taking a family vacation to somewhere that is not. America. Without friends, or pre-conceived notions gleaned from Who-Knows-Where. With plaaaans, people, plans!*
c) the Mothership will beam me (them?) up and explain that we were all just an extensive sociology experiment, and returns us to our origins.
d) They will start hearing something other than, "blaah, blah, blah" when I talk.
*Plans: Deciding to take an action or do an activity more than ten minutes prior to said action. Plans for activities often do not involve depending entirely on the phase of the moon or wether the sun is out.
Thus far in the week, I've thanked the heavens above many a time for the following:
- When we visited them in January, we flew. Seventeen hours in the car is pretty much intolerable.
- Wine, especially Babcock Petit Syrah; the fact that in California you don't have to go to another store to purchase it.
- No kids in the family which means my mother will have to barely conceal her joy over other people's struggles with their kids. Plus she will not get to endlessly dramatize stories of how horrible I was as a baby/toddler/kid/teenager to my children for the next thirty years.
- Wentworth Miller (eyes, lips)from Prison Break .
- The fact that S. allows me to endlessly ogle and critique wee lads like Wentworth Miller without too much censure, in his direct earshot.
- Due to item #3, we will never be required to spend seventeen hours in the car with tiny tots or trek through the Denver Airport during major holiday-type times of year.
- Phone calls to/from my sister that reassure me that they are indeed, difficult.
- Summer Roundup is only a little over a month away. (Santa Barbara Bowl with : The Strokes, Yellowcard, Panic! At The Disco, Franz Ferdinand, She Wants Revenge, Hard-Fi.)
- My husband and his infinite capacity for warm snuggling. Beam me up Scotty, indeed. (Yes, I've just "outed" him for the second time in a week.)
I've totally just been admonished that it would be entirely too much to "do the whole dinner scene..." (huge dramatic pause, as though having a nice dinner... on me, by the way, would be entirely too much to ask.) I don't ask for much, people.. but apparently the thought of having dinner with Scotty and I and no one else... is far to torturous. Again.. Beam me up Scotty!