Awkward (with a hint of urban decay)
If I had it my way, the first dinner with the in-laws would not be so formal.
No, not my in-laws.
Last Saturday, my family and I had the pleasure of meeting my sister's potential future in-laws. It marked our first meeting with them (and, obviously, theirs with us), and, though my sister and I both agree that the event went well, it was probably the most awkward dinner of my life, one to be topped only when I dine with my own potential future in-laws. My sister made it an understandable case and point to pick out and approve of what I wore to the dinner, and she made it yet another understandable case and point to tell my mom not to wear too much perfume because "[her potential future fiancé] said it gives his mom a migraine.
We got lost on the way there. It figures. We also got really edgy at each other as we struggled to read the road signs in the dark with my dad speeding past them.
Once we got there, I made it my own case and point to sit only when my sister sat down, to stand only when my sister stood up, to eat only when my sister began to eat, and to reach for seconds only after someone else had reached for seconds. I made it yet another case and point to speak mostly in English (adding in some Arabic here and there to prove that I knew that language). I did so in fear that I'd unknowingly misconjugate a verb or misuse and entire string of words.
"She seemed nice."
"Yes, but her brother misconjugated that one verb...
And I don't think he knows what half the words he used actually mean."
It was awkward. My sister clanged her fork against her plate once or twice, and each time we gave each other nervous looks as the sound seemed to echo throughout the seemingly quiet room.
If I had it my way, both families would meet at 5 in the morning before any one member can shower, use the bathroom, or eat. Both families would be stuffed into a shabby apartment with only one bathroom and a half empty box of Safeway brand cereal. Then we'd see some true colors. Then we'd see some true colors.
Speaking of shabby apartments, Gregor's back, along with a fairly new layout. The doorway in the background is one in Nottingham that seems very Kafka-esque; nothing spells Kafka like urban decay...
So, in honor of Gregor's return, I've decided to post the awakening I wrote for him in my writer's notebook a while back. Hope you enjoy:
***
He awoke in a cold, damp sweat as the shrill voice echoed up the stairs, sending chills down his shell.
"Grrrreeéegooor!" the voice repeated. "You want me make you some delicios breakfast?"
Gregor let out a low, dull moan. Slowly, he rolled out of bed, landing with a thud on the shabby linoleum below. He laid motionless on the floor, hoping that, by playing dead, the shrill voice would stop haunting him.
"Grrrreeéegooor!"
It didn't work. Gregor lifted himself up and dragged his four legs to the ancient, dusty vanity in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a faded gray tie. He looped the tie around his neck and, with his fingerless hands, fumbled trying to tie a knot.
"Lopsided," Gregor commented as he observed himself in the crooked mirror above the vanity. "I don't expect much more."
"Grrrreeéegooor! Your delicios breakfast - she will be cold by the time you get here."
Gregor decided that the only way to stop what he could only describe as a "blistered cat dying in agony" was to venture downstairs and into the kitchen. He sat at the plastic kitchen table and noted the array of disheveled pots and pans littered around the kitchen. Four pots sat on top of the stove, the contents of each oozing slowly over the sides. One of his sons - he could not distinguish between the two - splashed among the dirty plates in the kitchen sink.
"Gregor, I been slaving over stove all morning. I make you this," his wife said. She presented before him a burnt hot pocket, grinning wildly at her accomplishment.
"I think I'm late," Gregor said, not even trying to conceal his dissatisfaction. "I think I'll skip breakfast."
Gregor got up and dragged himself to the front door. He didn't bother saying goodbye - there was nothing "good" about it.
"Good, now I don't have to cook lunch," Grégorita, his wife, said, shoving the hot pocket back into the freezer.
Work was a Gregor expected: dull. Business was slow. He couldn't care less about the clean-ups in aisle eight, and he was almost positive that Yvonne, the woman at the neighboring register, was actually a man. He occupied himself by staring at the plain, white ceiling tiles - so consumed was he by that activity that he did not feel the clock inch forward. His twelve-hour workday was over in a flash, and Gregor was free to go home.
But Gregor did not want to go home. He was upset at the fact that he had enjoyed himself and made the time at work pass by more quickly. To delay returning to his dreary townhouse and unkempt wife as long as possible, Gregor took the long route home. He dragged himself into a dark side street, muttering complaints with every step. His mind wandered once again, and, unknowingly, Gregor steered off course, walking steadily into an abyss of darkness. Suddenly, his front-left leg faltered. He had stumbled into something - God knows what - and he felt himself tumble down the steep road like a raging pinball, landing with a surge of pain onto the firm, damp road.
He lied motionless once again, this time on his back and unable to move. Alone in the cold night, realizing that effort was fruitless, Gregor did the only thing he could do: become immersed in his own thoughts.
He thought of his life and of his family. He felt as though he had thrown himself into a mold that he was not willing to contort his crunchy little body to fit. He was not a worker; he was a free spirit, one with unfulfilled hopes and fading dreams.
"Oh, what a tiring job I've picked on indeed," Gregor thought to himself.
He pictured the faces of his two boys, though they were a blur. He pictured his wife, unkempt as she was, and he thought back to breakfast that morning. She had worked all morning, fiddling with the stove, just to cook a meal for him. In fact, Gregor thought, she always seemed to be cooking, trying to prepare meal after meal for the boys and him. Gregor recalled that he had never even seen her eat; she was always working to feed the family. In the biting cold night, Gregor couldn't help but miss his townhouse. Sure it had its flaws, but it was, after all, home. Gregor began to feel as if a weight had been lifted off his body; through his veins ran an ease he was sure he had never felt before. It was a strange feeling, and as his lips began to curl and his eyes began to widen, Gregor knew that he was kinda, sorta, almost, just a tinge, happy.
The sensation made him feel so light that a determination to get up and get going was kindled within him. Gregor began to wobble from side to side, swaying back and forth until he finally popped onto his four legs and two "hands."
Scurrying through the darkness, Gregor used his feelers to trace his way back to the main road and on his way home. He jolted up the front steps and through the front door. Despite the late hour, the house lights were on, and Gregorita sat waiting for Gregor in the kitchen. He walked in to find her at the plastic kitchen table with two hot pockets - one overcooked, the other undercooked - sitting before her.
"Work seem long today," she said. "I thought you be extra hungry."
Gregor sat at the table and pulled the hot pockets toward him.
"I can't eat these," he said. "I have to give one of them to you."
***
I'd like to thank Carianne and Shivani for their inspiration - especially Gregorita and the hot pockets.
And with that, I'm out
No, not my in-laws.
Last Saturday, my family and I had the pleasure of meeting my sister's potential future in-laws. It marked our first meeting with them (and, obviously, theirs with us), and, though my sister and I both agree that the event went well, it was probably the most awkward dinner of my life, one to be topped only when I dine with my own potential future in-laws. My sister made it an understandable case and point to pick out and approve of what I wore to the dinner, and she made it yet another understandable case and point to tell my mom not to wear too much perfume because "[her potential future fiancé] said it gives his mom a migraine.
We got lost on the way there. It figures. We also got really edgy at each other as we struggled to read the road signs in the dark with my dad speeding past them.
Once we got there, I made it my own case and point to sit only when my sister sat down, to stand only when my sister stood up, to eat only when my sister began to eat, and to reach for seconds only after someone else had reached for seconds. I made it yet another case and point to speak mostly in English (adding in some Arabic here and there to prove that I knew that language). I did so in fear that I'd unknowingly misconjugate a verb or misuse and entire string of words.
"She seemed nice."
"Yes, but her brother misconjugated that one verb...
And I don't think he knows what half the words he used actually mean."
It was awkward. My sister clanged her fork against her plate once or twice, and each time we gave each other nervous looks as the sound seemed to echo throughout the seemingly quiet room.
If I had it my way, both families would meet at 5 in the morning before any one member can shower, use the bathroom, or eat. Both families would be stuffed into a shabby apartment with only one bathroom and a half empty box of Safeway brand cereal. Then we'd see some true colors. Then we'd see some true colors.
Speaking of shabby apartments, Gregor's back, along with a fairly new layout. The doorway in the background is one in Nottingham that seems very Kafka-esque; nothing spells Kafka like urban decay...
So, in honor of Gregor's return, I've decided to post the awakening I wrote for him in my writer's notebook a while back. Hope you enjoy:
***
He awoke in a cold, damp sweat as the shrill voice echoed up the stairs, sending chills down his shell.
"Grrrreeéegooor!" the voice repeated. "You want me make you some delicios breakfast?"
Gregor let out a low, dull moan. Slowly, he rolled out of bed, landing with a thud on the shabby linoleum below. He laid motionless on the floor, hoping that, by playing dead, the shrill voice would stop haunting him.
"Grrrreeéegooor!"
It didn't work. Gregor lifted himself up and dragged his four legs to the ancient, dusty vanity in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a faded gray tie. He looped the tie around his neck and, with his fingerless hands, fumbled trying to tie a knot.
"Lopsided," Gregor commented as he observed himself in the crooked mirror above the vanity. "I don't expect much more."
"Grrrreeéegooor! Your delicios breakfast - she will be cold by the time you get here."
Gregor decided that the only way to stop what he could only describe as a "blistered cat dying in agony" was to venture downstairs and into the kitchen. He sat at the plastic kitchen table and noted the array of disheveled pots and pans littered around the kitchen. Four pots sat on top of the stove, the contents of each oozing slowly over the sides. One of his sons - he could not distinguish between the two - splashed among the dirty plates in the kitchen sink.
"Gregor, I been slaving over stove all morning. I make you this," his wife said. She presented before him a burnt hot pocket, grinning wildly at her accomplishment.
"I think I'm late," Gregor said, not even trying to conceal his dissatisfaction. "I think I'll skip breakfast."
Gregor got up and dragged himself to the front door. He didn't bother saying goodbye - there was nothing "good" about it.
"Good, now I don't have to cook lunch," Grégorita, his wife, said, shoving the hot pocket back into the freezer.
Work was a Gregor expected: dull. Business was slow. He couldn't care less about the clean-ups in aisle eight, and he was almost positive that Yvonne, the woman at the neighboring register, was actually a man. He occupied himself by staring at the plain, white ceiling tiles - so consumed was he by that activity that he did not feel the clock inch forward. His twelve-hour workday was over in a flash, and Gregor was free to go home.
But Gregor did not want to go home. He was upset at the fact that he had enjoyed himself and made the time at work pass by more quickly. To delay returning to his dreary townhouse and unkempt wife as long as possible, Gregor took the long route home. He dragged himself into a dark side street, muttering complaints with every step. His mind wandered once again, and, unknowingly, Gregor steered off course, walking steadily into an abyss of darkness. Suddenly, his front-left leg faltered. He had stumbled into something - God knows what - and he felt himself tumble down the steep road like a raging pinball, landing with a surge of pain onto the firm, damp road.
He lied motionless once again, this time on his back and unable to move. Alone in the cold night, realizing that effort was fruitless, Gregor did the only thing he could do: become immersed in his own thoughts.
He thought of his life and of his family. He felt as though he had thrown himself into a mold that he was not willing to contort his crunchy little body to fit. He was not a worker; he was a free spirit, one with unfulfilled hopes and fading dreams.
"Oh, what a tiring job I've picked on indeed," Gregor thought to himself.
He pictured the faces of his two boys, though they were a blur. He pictured his wife, unkempt as she was, and he thought back to breakfast that morning. She had worked all morning, fiddling with the stove, just to cook a meal for him. In fact, Gregor thought, she always seemed to be cooking, trying to prepare meal after meal for the boys and him. Gregor recalled that he had never even seen her eat; she was always working to feed the family. In the biting cold night, Gregor couldn't help but miss his townhouse. Sure it had its flaws, but it was, after all, home. Gregor began to feel as if a weight had been lifted off his body; through his veins ran an ease he was sure he had never felt before. It was a strange feeling, and as his lips began to curl and his eyes began to widen, Gregor knew that he was kinda, sorta, almost, just a tinge, happy.
The sensation made him feel so light that a determination to get up and get going was kindled within him. Gregor began to wobble from side to side, swaying back and forth until he finally popped onto his four legs and two "hands."
Scurrying through the darkness, Gregor used his feelers to trace his way back to the main road and on his way home. He jolted up the front steps and through the front door. Despite the late hour, the house lights were on, and Gregorita sat waiting for Gregor in the kitchen. He walked in to find her at the plastic kitchen table with two hot pockets - one overcooked, the other undercooked - sitting before her.
"Work seem long today," she said. "I thought you be extra hungry."
Gregor sat at the table and pulled the hot pockets toward him.
"I can't eat these," he said. "I have to give one of them to you."
***
I'd like to thank Carianne and Shivani for their inspiration - especially Gregorita and the hot pockets.
And with that, I'm out