Hello dears. You may be wondering where in the world I’ve been, a la that classic video game, Carmen San Diego (with which admission I am hereby dating myself as an official dinosaur – you may call me A-Rex). Well, I have been here all along – barely functioning.
You see, in keeping with my traditional tardiness on writing about events and holidays, I just wanted to talk about the past holidays [do insert your own holiday here, by all means], and how both you (since you’re reading this) and I (since I’m writing it) survived them. Holidays are stressful times; celebrations with the ones present, sad memories about the ones gone; last-minute shopping and decorations; horrid Celine Dion* Christmas songs; and (GASP!) family reunions. [*Disclaimer: I am in no way disparaging Celine’s unlimited talent which I’m sure you, her numerous fans (n = 32, at last count), can appreciate and are as we speak writing to me in ALL CAPS to express outrage. I am merely saying that I can’t stand the sight of the woman, and despise her songs, as is my right on account of my having ears and good taste. But surely that need not affect you, and you can go ahead keep listening to her].
Now back to the issue at hand, which I promise I will link to the title of this blog: Family reunions.
I believe that the only thing worse than having your in-laws visit is having your OWN family visit. Think about it – It’s not like you can tell your spouse/partner/pet: “It’s YOUR mother, so YOU sit with her for five hours to talk about the gossip back home. Not my responsibility, nor am I interested, plus I haven’t the foggiest idea what/who she’s talking about”. No, it’s all on you, the actual relative. So in these situations, I strongly recommend that you (if you didn’t do so on your own accord) start drinking.
This is particularly necessary when you have to engage in strenuous household activities such as emptying the dishwasher or refreshing the dog’s water bowl. God forbid you should actually have to cook the holiday meal. It is a known fact that any self-respecting professional chef (including those with cooking programs in The Food Network and the like) won’t even disclose how much cilantro is included in the recipe*, without first securing a bottle of fine Rioja or a gallon of mixed drinks, to sip during commercial breaks *(Answer: None. Cilantro is a vile herb suitable only to line the cages of pregnant rabbits so the little mouse-looking bunny babies have a soft bed to fall on when they’re born).
So why should you question the wisdom of professional chefs? I don’t (though it is beer for me, not wine or mixed drinks). Imagine the following scenario (names and occupations have been changed to protect privacy of characters, which we can probably all relate to/are related to/know intimately):
Day of party:
10:44 am – Your sister Mandy, who has never worked a day in her life and is pregnant with her 4th child (seriously?), arrives with her three older children in tow – these children are aged from 6 months to 3 years old. These children are not, by any standards, well behaved (who the hell has time to discipline them, if you’re either pregnant or having another baby while your previous child is exploring the inside of the microwave oven???). The father(s) of said children is/are not coming (can you blame him/them?). It is time to pour first beer (for yourself, not Mandy – after all, she IS pregnant).
11:58 am – Cousin Richard surprises the family by coming over (suspiciously unshaven and possibly un-showered, as it befits someone having just left the half-way house and not passed Go nor collected $200). You ask yourself if Mother perhaps warned you that he was released from jail after that incident with the child porn, but you blocked it from your mind, in an effort to not throw up on your mother-in-law’s dinner table last Thanksgiving. Beer refills are called for.
1:25 pm – Uncle Charlie rolls in, with Flavor Of The Month partner Aunt Charliette (everyone in the family calls all of them Charliette, on account of the rapid changes in partner that Uncle Charlie seems to be fond of, rendering it impossible for anyone to learn the current one’s name, and also preventing the disastrous mistake of calling her by the wrong name). He proudly announces they’re getting married (his 5th, her 1st, judging from her being around 19 years old), and asks your oldest daughter (13) to bring him his usual (Jack Daniels). You wonder if it is too late to send for another keg.
3:10 pm – No party is complete without Aunt Louise. Your father’s sister, she never married – for reasons they always said you need not know – and frankly, do not want to find out. She is approximately 105 years old, not counting Sundays, and has the sunny disposition of a monsoon. As soon as Aunt Louise comes in, along with her ubiquitous companion Teresa (an unfortunate nice lady from Honduras who has been with her since the Nixon administration), she sits by the fire in manner of the Queen (Mother) and starts yelling for Teresa to bring her some brandy, what with the people in this house not paying attention to her. Spots you and calls out (“Child!” – she calls everyone “child”, since clearly she cannot even remember her own name). You pretend you don’t hear her, head for the bar. Perhaps if you fashion an IV you may get the beer into your bloodstream in a more efficient manner.
4:55 pm – Blood-curling screams can be heard from the general direction of the children’s bedroom, along with some whimpering noises. Mandy sees fit to inform you at that point that her eldest (3-yr old Timmy, herein to be known as Little Satan) has been watching The Life and Work of Ted Bundy lately (who thinks of these documentaries??), and was last seen going upstairs with a butcher knife. Also, your dog Patches has not been spotted for the past 3 hours. Reinforcements are in order. Beer won’t do. You look around for the fixings of a Scorpion Bowl.
Need I say more? If I have not presented here for you enough evidence of The Importance of Alcohol in Surviving Family Life, then you either a) are seriously creepy, or b) already started drinking yourself to oblivion and right now could not care less. I sincerely hope, for your health and sanity, that the latter is the case. Also, please note that every single event, character, and fact mentioned in this blog is entirely made up, except for the qualities of cilantro (and Celine Dion). As for the rest… I’ll leave you wondering if I, somehow, had a peek at YOUR last family reunion [insert evil laugh].