Send Bourbon
Nov. 28th, 2003 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lawnrrdI'm in Philadelphia for the long Holiday weekend, nestled in the bosom of my family. I need a drink. I need a whole fleet of drinks.
I've talked before about how family is difficult for me. What I just noticed this trip is how I unconsciously and automatically raise my defenses to full alert on the way to Penn Station for the trip "home." I am depressed, tired, uptight, impatient, and crabby for the whole length of the visit. This is not fun for me or for those inside my blast radius.
We came down Wednesday evening, missing at least two parties that I wanted to attend. The reason was my brother-in-law's standup comedy debut at a club in Philadelphia—at least, that's what I had expected.
The train ride was uneventful, although Penn Station is always hectic. We took a cab from 30th Street Station to Lauren's father's house. When we got there, we learned that the parents had forgotten we would be coming there for dinner before the show. They had already eaten, so we ordered in mediocre Chinese food that gave Lauren diarrhea. We then went en masse to the club.
Hilarity failed to ensue.
The venue was not a club, as such. Or maybe the event sponsors had rented out the whole place. I'm not sure how the thing was organized, but it was more or less a reunion for the older campers and counselors at the summer camp where Lauren and I were married. The median age seemed about sixteen. Lauren and her brothers have all remained connected to this camp—for example, her 27-year-old brother (not the one we went to see doing standup) worked there last summer—so it wasn't surprising that they were at a camp-related event. There were some parents there, and there was a bar for the adults serving beer, mediocre wine, and worse liquor.
For the record, this was the sort of crowd and scene that I loathed when I was their age. I have not since come to like it more.
The next surprise was that the brother wasn't going on stage right away. First, there was about an hour-long set by a band fronted by this sixteen-year-old guy who was quite good on both the guitar and harmonica, but who really should have left the singing to someone else. Lauren's brother (the one who had worked at camp last summer) sang backup for some reason. The band was competent, but it wasn't my kind of music, and I was bored.
Finally, after my second beer, Lauren's other brother came on stage to do his routine. But no one besides his immediate family and friends paid attention. Certainly the kids didn't care: they all stood in a crowd directly in front of the stage, talking among themselves. After a few minutes, David decided that this wasn't going to work and retired to an area upstairs. We eventually reconvened there, and he tried to do his routine, but the first attempt had taken a lot out of him, and there's a limit to the number of dick jokes you can do in front of your grandmother. So he was funny for a little while, then we all called it a night, going back to our respective homes.
Thursday morning we slept in. We're staying at Lauren's sister's house, which is empty because the sister and her husband and kids did the smart thing and flew out to California for the holiday. Lauren made breakfast and I did the best I could to clean up, but we couldn't find things like sponges or paper towels.
Lauren spoke with her oldest friend, who is nuts, and we set out to visit her and her husband, who live in an exurb of Philadelphia. They have a house that they've done a lot of work on themselves, which is on a nice-sized patch of land. I'm not sure it's on enough land for them to have five dogs, two cats, two geese, and some number of ducks and chickens, but there you have it. Lauren's friend is also a dog groomer, and she boards some of her clients at the house, so I counted nine dogs running around.
I made the mistake of dressing for dinner before we left for the house. I thought I was getting along all right (aside from some mud on my slacks). Their newest dog, an eight-year-old bloodhound named Lady Bird, slobbered all over my hands, though, so I went off to the bathroom to wash up. Then the soap dispenser attacked me, spraying hand soap all over my shirt instead of my hands. So we threw the shirt into the laundry, washing, drying, and ironing it in just over an hour.
We drove from there to my father's house for dinner, stopping on the way to pick up our contributions to dinner: a bottle of wine, a pie, and some homemade brownies.
Historically my father has had an open house for family on Thanksgiving afternoon. This has been his attempt to keep his side of the family together, especially since his brother died. His brother had five children, and my father is convinced that my cousins' mother and stepfather are trying to drive out all traces of their father, my uncle. People stop by for an hour or so before going to their respective destinations for dinner.
The forms of family have been very important to my father for as long as I can remember. The substance, less so. Yet my need for distance from my family mystifies him.
My father and stepmother also hosted Thanksgiving dinner this year. Lauren and I decided to go because we honestly don't know how much longer it's going to be possible to interact with my father before his mind goes.
We arrived at about four. My brother was there with his wife and my nieces. If I liked children, I'm sure I'd find the girls adorable; everyone else certainly does, and I can see why even if I don't appreciate it myself. My brother's wife was relatively well-behaved. Two of my cousins were there, too.
We chatted for a while, because, frankly, there's not much else to do at that kind of thing. The football game was on, and we cheered every time Miami scored. Things got awkward when my brother stayed later than he planned and didn't leave before my stepbrother arrived with his family. (They're not speaking, mostly because of their wives.) They ignored each other for a while, then my brother and his family left.
More chatting, then dinner. My stepbrother's two-year-old son, Logan, was, well, a two-year-old boy. He was fascinated with me, as kids often are. I was less patient with him than I should have been, but I'm not perfect, after all.
The roster for dinner was: My father and stepmother; me and Lauren; my stepbrother and his wife and son; and my stepbrother's wife's parents. (Her father is pleasant, but could use a personality donor. Her mother is just wacky in moderately irritating ways.) Dinner was good. My stepmother made most of it herself, which surprised us. She did order a cooked turkey, though, but it was surprisingly good.
My father's lapses were frequent, obvious, and disturbing. He asked at least five times where Lauren and I were staying. And at least three more times we had to tell him that the fluorescent tube above the sink was burnt out, which was why I was carving the turkey in the dark. That depressed me even more, but it was still better than The Very Worst Thanksgiving Ever®, which I may write about some day.
We left at about nine o'clock and wen't home. Lauren and I were both exhausted, so we climbed into bed and watched Friends, which Lauren inexplicably enjoys, and then Queer Eye.
Tonight, a housewarming for a Philadelphia-based friend of Lauren's whom I actually like. I may even have a good time. More later.
I've talked before about how family is difficult for me. What I just noticed this trip is how I unconsciously and automatically raise my defenses to full alert on the way to Penn Station for the trip "home." I am depressed, tired, uptight, impatient, and crabby for the whole length of the visit. This is not fun for me or for those inside my blast radius.
Wednesday
We came down Wednesday evening, missing at least two parties that I wanted to attend. The reason was my brother-in-law's standup comedy debut at a club in Philadelphia—at least, that's what I had expected.
The train ride was uneventful, although Penn Station is always hectic. We took a cab from 30th Street Station to Lauren's father's house. When we got there, we learned that the parents had forgotten we would be coming there for dinner before the show. They had already eaten, so we ordered in mediocre Chinese food that gave Lauren diarrhea. We then went en masse to the club.
Hilarity failed to ensue.
The venue was not a club, as such. Or maybe the event sponsors had rented out the whole place. I'm not sure how the thing was organized, but it was more or less a reunion for the older campers and counselors at the summer camp where Lauren and I were married. The median age seemed about sixteen. Lauren and her brothers have all remained connected to this camp—for example, her 27-year-old brother (not the one we went to see doing standup) worked there last summer—so it wasn't surprising that they were at a camp-related event. There were some parents there, and there was a bar for the adults serving beer, mediocre wine, and worse liquor.
For the record, this was the sort of crowd and scene that I loathed when I was their age. I have not since come to like it more.
The next surprise was that the brother wasn't going on stage right away. First, there was about an hour-long set by a band fronted by this sixteen-year-old guy who was quite good on both the guitar and harmonica, but who really should have left the singing to someone else. Lauren's brother (the one who had worked at camp last summer) sang backup for some reason. The band was competent, but it wasn't my kind of music, and I was bored.
Finally, after my second beer, Lauren's other brother came on stage to do his routine. But no one besides his immediate family and friends paid attention. Certainly the kids didn't care: they all stood in a crowd directly in front of the stage, talking among themselves. After a few minutes, David decided that this wasn't going to work and retired to an area upstairs. We eventually reconvened there, and he tried to do his routine, but the first attempt had taken a lot out of him, and there's a limit to the number of dick jokes you can do in front of your grandmother. So he was funny for a little while, then we all called it a night, going back to our respective homes.
Thursday
Thursday morning we slept in. We're staying at Lauren's sister's house, which is empty because the sister and her husband and kids did the smart thing and flew out to California for the holiday. Lauren made breakfast and I did the best I could to clean up, but we couldn't find things like sponges or paper towels.
Lauren spoke with her oldest friend, who is nuts, and we set out to visit her and her husband, who live in an exurb of Philadelphia. They have a house that they've done a lot of work on themselves, which is on a nice-sized patch of land. I'm not sure it's on enough land for them to have five dogs, two cats, two geese, and some number of ducks and chickens, but there you have it. Lauren's friend is also a dog groomer, and she boards some of her clients at the house, so I counted nine dogs running around.
I made the mistake of dressing for dinner before we left for the house. I thought I was getting along all right (aside from some mud on my slacks). Their newest dog, an eight-year-old bloodhound named Lady Bird, slobbered all over my hands, though, so I went off to the bathroom to wash up. Then the soap dispenser attacked me, spraying hand soap all over my shirt instead of my hands. So we threw the shirt into the laundry, washing, drying, and ironing it in just over an hour.
We drove from there to my father's house for dinner, stopping on the way to pick up our contributions to dinner: a bottle of wine, a pie, and some homemade brownies.
Historically my father has had an open house for family on Thanksgiving afternoon. This has been his attempt to keep his side of the family together, especially since his brother died. His brother had five children, and my father is convinced that my cousins' mother and stepfather are trying to drive out all traces of their father, my uncle. People stop by for an hour or so before going to their respective destinations for dinner.
The forms of family have been very important to my father for as long as I can remember. The substance, less so. Yet my need for distance from my family mystifies him.
My father and stepmother also hosted Thanksgiving dinner this year. Lauren and I decided to go because we honestly don't know how much longer it's going to be possible to interact with my father before his mind goes.
We arrived at about four. My brother was there with his wife and my nieces. If I liked children, I'm sure I'd find the girls adorable; everyone else certainly does, and I can see why even if I don't appreciate it myself. My brother's wife was relatively well-behaved. Two of my cousins were there, too.
We chatted for a while, because, frankly, there's not much else to do at that kind of thing. The football game was on, and we cheered every time Miami scored. Things got awkward when my brother stayed later than he planned and didn't leave before my stepbrother arrived with his family. (They're not speaking, mostly because of their wives.) They ignored each other for a while, then my brother and his family left.
More chatting, then dinner. My stepbrother's two-year-old son, Logan, was, well, a two-year-old boy. He was fascinated with me, as kids often are. I was less patient with him than I should have been, but I'm not perfect, after all.
The roster for dinner was: My father and stepmother; me and Lauren; my stepbrother and his wife and son; and my stepbrother's wife's parents. (Her father is pleasant, but could use a personality donor. Her mother is just wacky in moderately irritating ways.) Dinner was good. My stepmother made most of it herself, which surprised us. She did order a cooked turkey, though, but it was surprisingly good.
My father's lapses were frequent, obvious, and disturbing. He asked at least five times where Lauren and I were staying. And at least three more times we had to tell him that the fluorescent tube above the sink was burnt out, which was why I was carving the turkey in the dark. That depressed me even more, but it was still better than The Very Worst Thanksgiving Ever®, which I may write about some day.
We left at about nine o'clock and wen't home. Lauren and I were both exhausted, so we climbed into bed and watched Friends, which Lauren inexplicably enjoys, and then Queer Eye.
Tonight, a housewarming for a Philadelphia-based friend of Lauren's whom I actually like. I may even have a good time. More later.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-11-28 01:01 pm (UTC)My sister invited me to go to her house next year (this is the sort of thing that happens in my family, invitations a year in advnace, so you can't get out of them) and I'm wondering if I could book a trip to Peru instead.
If you'd like some cheerful interaction upon your return, I'm hosting a doggie birthday party on Tuesday evening, and you'd be most welcome even without a playmate for Morgan.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-29 09:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-02 07:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-28 01:58 pm (UTC)hang in there.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-29 09:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-29 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-29 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-29 04:46 am (UTC)Aie... that does not sound like anything you wanted to do this year (or last, or next, for that matter). Was the food decent, at any rate?
no subject
Date: 2003-11-29 09:23 am (UTC)And for that matter, last night's party was fun, too.
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 09:40 am (UTC)