Hatfields vs. Hatfields

It’s almost Easter, which means it’s time for me to become a Jehovah’s Witness. Granted, I love my family but…you know when you see an ugly baby and it’s a baby so it’s beautiful and you give it love…but it’s still ugly? My family is sorta like that baby.

Have you ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? I got goosebumps when I watched it because it was my family on a big screen. My dad’s family is like Ian’s – subdued and educated yet…cold. I probably haven’t seen most of my cousins in fifteen or so years and have never met their children. Yet when we do get together for a holiday, we put all animosity, all “why-are-you-so-distant-that-you-won’t-even-have-a-relationship-with-me” behind us. We eat good food, we play fun games and we enjoy the time spent together. Then we don't talk for another five years.

Jump to Toula’s family. I honestly don’t know how my father ended up married to my mother. Her family is the proverbial mixed bag of salty nuts. Everyone is up in each other’s business and unlike my father’s family, I see my cousins and their children waaaay too much.

My dad’s family is scattered throughout the country while my mom’s kin is centrally located here in a small “formerly” racist town in the Midwest. (I sometimes wonder if some of the actors in Deliverance weren’t cast from this small town but I digress.)

I dread the weeks leading into any holiday season. It starts with my mom saying, “So…your aunt wanted to have *insert holiday here* at her large comfortable newly remodeled home but your other aunt refuses to step foot in her house so we all have to squeeze into Grandma's little apartment in order to please everyone. So are you coming?” To which I always say, “Here we go again. It is three weeks until *insert holiday here* and you guys are already starting this? I'M NOT GOING. Every year I tell you I would rather sit naked in a vat of hot vinegar than endure another holiday with my family, and every year you guilt me into going. It's not happening this time!!!” Three weeks later, I find myself walking out of Grandma's house, hot, grumpy and convinced I'm adopted.

However, IT GETS BETTER. Several years ago, an incident essentially split the family in half. Side A hated Side B and vice versa. My grandmother sided with Side B but had to smidge a little to please Side A as they were still family. Therefore, whenever a holiday rolls around, Side A and Side B don’t want to be in the same city together, let alone the same room. Grandma would be content celebrating solely with Side B but Side B is uber-dysfunctional and can’t even get it together enough to hold a gathering...so she's stuck with Side A. (If it isn’t yet obvious, although I try to be Switzerland and stay out of everything, I generally side with Side A.)

Unfortunately, Side A is still a rambunctious bunch so holiday gatherings usually mean I am planted in the corner of the couch, trying to be invisible so as not to attract the attention of any of the lunatics…such as the drunk uncle who hits on people (but only if they’re family, natch); the snooty Chicago-based cousins who show off their God-awful Coach insignia shoes (“Aren’t these TIGHT, Grandma????”); their mother, prancing around in her hot pink Prada toolbelt she bought for an upcoming charity trip down South (subsequently ruined while building houses in Louisiana because she actually had to help build the houses in Louisiana); and finally, the conspiracy theorists who wax poetic on why my older sister thinks she’s too good for everyone and never steps foot in their town, let alone attend any family gatherings (um…maybe because she lucked out and married a “normal” guy and celebrates with his "normal" family???)

After enduring the longest hour of my life (and I’ve even experienced contractions and CHILDBIRTH), I gather The Kid and try to back out of the house slowly…swearing that I will NEVER NEVER do this again.

At least until next Thanksgiving.

Foto Friday

This is about the time The Kid decided he wanted to be Jewish.

And So It Begins

The neighbor is mowing his yard.

Remembering.....

It's St. Patrick's Day? Oh yeah....I vaguely remember celebrating it by drinking green concoctions. Then I had a child. Now the only green concoction I drink is Nyquil. And only when I'm out of alcohol.

Thinking.....

If you can't handle bratty kids, then DON'T BECOME AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL TEACHER. The prison is always looking for brawny, bitchy guards.

Seriously.

Foto Friday

Stone Cold Kitty

Ah, boys...

Me: "There's a new coffee shop in town called 'The Bean'. You wanna try it sometime?"

The Kid: "Sure."

Me: "Cool."

The Kid: "Is it really called 'The Bean'?"

Me: "Yes..."

The Kid: "Does a guy named Frank own it?"

Me: "Not sure. Why?"

The Kid: "Cause it would be funny. Frank, who owns 'The Bean', has a frank and beans. FRANK AND BEANS!!!!!!!"


Never thought when I felt the first little flutter of life in my stomach that my future would include penis jokes.

*sigh*

I Will Survive

I am a notoriously HORRIBLE sleeper. Always have been. However, my current lack of gainful employment has exacerbated this condition because it affords me plenty of nap time during the day.

But I don't mind because I watch some of the freakyish shit on late night tv. It's fantastic! Last night, I experienced the behind-the-scenes real lives of porn stars (including an interview with Buck Angel, a heavily tattooed, mustached, cigar smoking porn star...who has a vagina. That's right. Buck was born "Susan" but through hormones and surgery has completely changed genders through the years. Well, almost completely...) On tap for tonight? Paula Deen's Disco Party. That's right...a full hour of Paula Deen (in a dark wig??? I don't know why either) cooking with GLORIA GAYNOR.

GLORIA GODDAMN GAYNOR.

They're making chicken wings smothered in a white mushroom gravy over a bed of saffron rice. Apparently not only can Gloria Goddamn Gaynor cook, Gloria Goddamn Gaynor can COOK.

Almost makes the hot skewers in my ears not hurt so bad....y'alllllllll!

Clean Up in Aisle 9

I don't mean to be insensitive but if you don't know how to use the self scanner at the grocery store then DO NOT GET IN THE SELF-SCAN LANE. I always get stuck behind Marge and Leroy, who not only can barely hear each other, but have obviously never been exposed to machinery such as the ultra complicated self-scanner.

(After waving a box of food over the scanner 7-10 times)"MARGE. MARGE. THIS BOX OF HAMBURGER HELPER WON'T BEEP."

"LEROY, YOU HAVE TO FIND THE BLACK LINES."

"I DID, MARGE. THE DAMN THING STILL WON'T WORK."

I mean, really? How hard is it? It's not like we all went to checker school. Most of us went to the grocery store with our moms when we were young and then imitated the checker with our own canned goods at home.

"JESUS, MARGE. HOW THE HELL IS THIS THING SUPPOSED TO WORK?"

And then we hear the triumphant BEEP. FINALLY. Then another BEEP.

"LEROY, YOU SCANNED IT TWICE."

"I KNOW I SCANNED IT TWICE, MARGE. I DON'T KNOW HOW THE HELL TO ERASE IT. GO GET ANOTHER ONE."

Two down, 12 more items to go. Please God don't let them have coupons...

Reality Garbage

Poor Tenley. She farts rainbows while Vienna farts sex and candy.

*sigh*

Really?

I just discovered there is an actual magazine titled, "Miniature Donkey Talk". And no, I'm not a subscriber.

Yet.