How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth
I have returned from California, and really not a moment too soon. My sister was running a marathon in San Diego and she called me some months ago begging me to meet her there. She'd even pay for half my ticket. The reason for her desperation is because our older sister, brother-in-law and mother are in California, and that combination at full strength is simply too much for either of us to bear alone.
Since she's in Boston and I'm in Denver, we can go months and even years without seeing the rest of our family. In this span of time, it's easy to forget how intolerable they really are, as well as build up a healthy sense of guilt for avoiding them. Hence our sporadic pilgrimages, always simultaneous, and as brief as we can get away with.
Our family could be a good deal worse, but it could also be much better. On a scale of 0-10, with 0 being the Mansons and 10 being the Cleavers, I'd put us at about a 4 -- we function, but only within our prescribed geographic parameters and with a healthy dose of denial and fear of confrontation thrown in for good measure.
I wish I could be like David Sedaris. He writes about his family all the time at their worst and weakest moments, but does so in a way that it clearly comes from a place of love. I love my family but sometimes I wonder if that's only because you're supposed to. As you read this, if you think I sound horribly mean-spirited and ungrateful, keep in mind that I hate feeling like this. It's an ugly side of me that I'd rather not have. Yet at the same time they just make me SO. CRAZY. (I'll cut for length, because my demons are legion.)
Mom: The Voices In Her Head Are Louder Than Yours
The most annoying thing about my mother is her complete inability to edit. When she tells a story, she doesn't leave anything out. At all. Worse, relevance to any current conversation or potential interest to her audience are strictly optional. Dialogue is recounted in excruciatingly minute detail. Characters are introduced with exhaustive (and I mean that in both definitions of the word) back stories, whether you were curious about them or not. Every day an endless droning commentary on the mundane and uninteresting, until I'm literally fantasizing of pounding my head against the wall in a bid for unconsciousness. The irony is I was somehow raised with too great a sense of courtesy to just tune her out, a handicap she apparently doesn't have.
All my life the most predominant impression I've gotten from my mother is that she never listens when I talk. Anecdotes of my day were always met with a faint "Mmmmmmmhmmmmm," when they were acknowledged at all. This was resoundingly confirmed on this trip. Several times my younger sister (Amy) and I were having a conversation when mom would just butt in with whatever was on her mind at that moment (which was never remotely related to what we were talking about at the time). Finally I snapped and yelled, "Mom, I'm speaking! Can you wait until I finish?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize" was her first excuse. Then it happened twice more over the following week, with me snapping at her both times, until on the last day she finally seemed to learn to check in first before talking.
My two theories are A) she really is that rude, or B) she really is so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she honestly doesn't even hear anyone talking. I'm not sure which choice is easier to live with. In her defense, Amy has dim memories of our grandmother and she said she was exactly the same way if not worse. As a result, both Amy and I are determined not to end up like this.
It's draining to be talked at for four days straight, and inevitably our restraint becomes frayed and both Amy and I start responding with cutting, horrible remarks to be made by a child to a mother. We feel terrible about it, but we're only human. What other response is there to grossly inaccurate blanket generalizations such as "Illegal immigrants only come to this country to kill Americans" based on one incident? (I thought at first she meant terrorists, not Mexicans) Or being infuriated at having to select English or Spanish from automated phone menus?
My mother is a tad racist, though she'd be horrified to be thought of as such. Every non-white character in her stories has a racial assignation (i.e., Nympha, the Filipino nurse). She also uses them repeatedly, as my other sister Nancy complained, "Mom, you've been talking about Nympha for 3 years now. I KNOW she's Filipino." so I guess Amy and I aren't the only ones whose tempers wear thin. She has a particular intolerance for Mexicans (though only since moving to California) and believes (and freely spews) every negative stereotype she's ever heard. I made the mistake of defending illegal immigrants, and Amy later told me that as soon as I left the room she accused me of being "too altruistic" and that I "must not have many Mexicans in Colorado." Maybe next time she visits we'll take a drive down Colfax, or Federal, or Martin Luther King Blvd, or down to Pueblo or Alamosa.
Amy asked her solution to illegal immigration. "Tighten up the borders!" she replied. Why didn't the government think of that? Silly Bush administration.
When normal conversation isn't tense enough, she brings up politics. She's fiercely loyal to Obama though can't say why, as well as vitriolically opposed to Hilary (though can't say why). Amy asked what Obama proposed to do about illegal immigration, and she had no idea. She also thinks Hilary's experience is limited to being First Lady, and won't be convinced otherwise. There are few things more dangerous than an uneducated voter.
She has a habit of asking questions in a way that make things seem more complicated than they are. She has one of those automatic shower cleaners in her bathroom (not nearly enough for the task at hand; more later). She asked me, "Do you know how to work it?" "Ummmm, press the big blue button?" I hazarded a guess, it being the only button on it. I went to mop her kitchen floor (desperately in need of it, or else I would never mop on my vacation) and she asked me if I knew how to use the mop. "I thought I did" I answered. It turned out I did, but her asking implied there was more to it than met the eye. She asked Amy if she needed help with the clothes washer, as if we both hadn't been washing our own clothes for decades now. Is it any wonder we get a wee bit snippy?
Last three peeves: She insists on introducing us to everyone who crosses her path (waitresses, store clerks, park rangers, zoo keepers), despite Amy's constantly assuring her that no one cares. We hate having to see that pained smile and forced pretense of interest. Welcome to our world, sir. Second, her house is filthy. Like, you don't want to be barefoot in the bathtub filthy. Like, rooms piled to the ceiling with heaps of stuff filthy. Like those shows where they bring in the cleaning team, and you recoil in horror and disbelief that anyone lives that way filthy. My sister flew back on a red eye and immediately cleaned her condo. Third, she's up to her eyeballs in debt, mostly thanks to buying things for my older sister like cars and houses. More on that later.
After four days of barely holding back from each other's throats, she hugged us goodbye saying how wonderful our visit was and what a good time she had. Remember what I said about denial? We are terrible, terrible children. But we can't help it.
The Nancy Channel: All Nancy, All the Time
Nancy is 13 years older than me, a gap which Tery thinks constitutes a different generation. I'm told when I was born she doted heavily on me, carrying me around in public and often being mistaken for a teenaged mother (quite the scandal back in the 70's). It makes me a little sad to know that we were closest during a period I can't remember. I must have been an awful baby, since Nancy has been adamantly opposed to having children ever since (one thing we see eye-to-eye on).
Nancy's life is fabulous. I know because we heard about little else for 4 straight days. She works for RGIS, the same inventory company I quit escaped from (she got me the job in the first place) and has an endless treasure trove of tales. Unlike my mother, whose stories are often tangential if not completely out of the blue, Nancy's stories are very germane because she rules the conversation with an iron fist. It really is all about her. "Surely she'll grow tired eventually and want to hear about our lives," I whispered to Amy one night as we huddled in our bed. No, not so much. Any attempt to interject something into the discussion is met with a blank stare, no doubt surprise at hearing someone else's voice . Our stories are only of value as a stepping stone to the next topic Nancy wants to cover.
More than anything, both my mother and Nancy remind me strongly of a quote from Fight Club: They are just waiting for their turn to speak (and in my mother's case, not even waiting that long).
Nancy is also terribly irresponsible with money. She's declared bankruptcy at least twice (to my knowledge) and her credit is utterly irreparable. Hence she is dependent on my mother for a lot more than a 51-year-old woman should be. Despite not even being able to afford lunch and having her bank card cancelled (THAT was a fun afternoon), she lives quite extravagantly. It's nearly pathological: She has a $7000 embroidery machine (gift from mom); her newest vehicle is a Limited Edition Nissan Xterra with stadium seating, roof rack and booster step (co-signed by mom); she bought a $1200 37-inch HDTV because they sell them at Home Depot (she gets an employee discount, reason enough); and she has plans to remodel her bathroom in black marble (don't even ask me how this will be financed).
I asked Mom where this need to have the best of the best comes from. Mom blames it on Russ (the husband. More later). "She really did get a good deal on the Nissan," she justified. "But surely there were other options besides the Limited Edition" I pointed out. Mom just smiled helplessly. I can't point fingers, I needed a loan from my mother to help with my Honda, but the difference is I'm paying back every penny.
Mom and Nancy have three dogs now (I categorize them together since Mom built a house on Nancy's property and the dogs go back and forth between them): Anubis, Nancy's black English springer spaniel (kind of twitchy around anyone but Nancy, came from an abusive home); Fiona, Mom's dalmatian/lab mix; and the newest, little Fur Elise, a giant schnauzer puppy. Elise came along because Nancy hinted strongly at Christmas that she wanted a puppy. When Mom ignored the hints, she insisted they go to the pound together to pick one out. She technically is Mom's despite Nancy being the impetus for taking her home, making it possible for Nancy to become miffed every time she messes in her house. "Well, I guess it's too much for her OWNER to keep an eye on her," she sniffs. As with everything else, Amy and I bite our tongues.
Me and Elise. She is kind of a cutie
I love Nancy's house (bought by mom). She's got nearly as much stuff as our mother, but she is ruthlessly organized. The problem is all three inhabitants (her, Russ and their co-worker roommate) are smokers and it doesn't take long before you feel like you're in a bar, with burning eyes, stinging nostrils and stinky clothes. So this was our choice during the visit, to hang out at the bar or at the "How Clean is Your House?" house.
Nancy has always had radical haircuts favoring a closely-cropped crewcut, often resembling Annie Lennox. In her old age she's opted for bleach blonde, hair as well as eyebrows, so she looks a bit like the love child of Eminem and Ziggy Stardust. It's a bit disconcerting to look at.
Nancy is more bearable than Mom (at least her stories are more entertaining), but days of hearing all about her without even an attempted effort to appear curious about us are just as wearying. I asked Tery why she thinks Amy and I grew up with relatively superior social skills -- she thinks we had each other to bounce off of and influence, and we each thank god for that.
Russell: Your Bose Headphones Aren't Good Enough For Him
Russell is by far the easiest to deal with of the three. At least with him you feel like you're actually in a two-way conversation. Easygoing, laidback, with a taste for looking at naked Asian women (I can hardly throw stones, given my Snarry obsession). He's harmless, trained as a professional photographer but lacking the ambition to get paid for it. He puts up with a lot of shit between my mom and Nancy, so we cut him a lot of slack. They've been married happily for 33 years, mostly due to his willingness to let Nancy wear the pants, so to speak. Russell's biggest flaw is his taste for the finer things in life, as well as knowing more than you do about, well, everything.
While my mother is forced out of retirement to pay for two mortgages, Russ sits at the computer shopping for $500 stereo receivers. The problem is the low-end receivers don't have hookups for a record player (he's a hippie and owns more vinyl than CDs). Adapters won't work because it would always bug him knowing there was an extra attachment back there. Why suffer with that when there are units that have it built in already? This is the kind of perfection he demands while making probably not much more money than me.
For whatever reason, the subject turned to headphones. He had shopped high and low for his, finally settling on some F70's (I'm probably substituting the actual model here. I stopped paying close attention when he said they were $400). I told him how much I love the Bose that Tery bought me, and he said kind of smugly, "Don't ever listen to the F70's then." Okay, it's a deal. Because I like being happy with what I can afford and not forever pursuing the highest quality everything.
Perhaps that's why I found it so bothersome that their 37-inch TV wasn't set to the proper widescreen ratio, and we watched Pirates of the Caribbean 3 with thick black bars on top and bottom. Hannibal Rising was just as bad. Why buy this huge TV if you aren't going to use as much of the screen as you can? I would have offered to fix it if I thought they would take me at all seriously.
Everything in Russell's life is a constant one-upmanship. Walking around the San Diego Zoo, someone commented on it being all up hill. I said, "Yeah, kind of like Edinburgh. The entire city is uphill, both ways." Russell responded, "Well that's how it is in Vermont. Nothing but hills." Yep, Vermont trumps Scotland. Even though he lived there 25 years ago. It seems like a silly thing to be irritated by, but believe me, when it's pervasive it isn't that hard. No one at any point asked me anything at all about my trip to England.
Russell and birthday cake. We call him the Bumble since he had to have all his teeth removed after a lifetime of smoking. This ensemble earned him the nickname "Hugh Hefner" for the night as well
Amy: My Best Friend in the World
Finally, there's my little sis Amy. She's a year younger than me. We talk at least once a week and are I think the closest of any two people in our family. The only thing to be said about her is she has the shortest fuse of us all (Scorpio) and is the first to get testy. She apparently once wrote a long letter to my mother explaining the problems she has relating to her, and expressing a wish to have a closer relationship. This was met with my mother's typical indifference. Amy has been in therapy because of her problems with our mother. She and Nancy went so long without talking that Amy thought Nancy was mad at her, and that suited Amy just fine. Amy was the only thing that made this trip even close to bearable (even though I was only there for her sake to begin with).
Amy and Elise, who she decided she could tolerate after a few glasses of wine
Here we all are. Don't we look so normal and happy? Lies, all lies.
Back Row: Me, Nan and Amy. Front Row: Mom.
I'm not bothering to friends-lock this entry because, as you can see, even if my family knew about my journal they wouldn't bother to read it.
As an indicator of the stress I experienced on this trip, literally the second I got on the plane home I was hit with a monster of a head cold. I blame my family because I read that stress increases cortisol levels which weaken immunity. My levels must have been off the charts all week. I also read that a recommended relaxation activity is journaling, something I was unable to do all week. So here I am. This is my therapy session.
While I was gone, Tery brought this little guy home:
Baby Malcolm. The toy behind him is the size of my palm, to give you an idea how tiny he is
Am I surprised she couldn't wait for me to get home? No. She wandered into Petco and he apparently had just arrived from New York that morning, so it was almost like Fate. He had only been in the store for a few hours, so hadn't had time to be socialized (or, as in Duncan's case, anti-socialized). A perfect little blank slate for us to raise properly.
Stalking the Kitten
Since she's in Boston and I'm in Denver, we can go months and even years without seeing the rest of our family. In this span of time, it's easy to forget how intolerable they really are, as well as build up a healthy sense of guilt for avoiding them. Hence our sporadic pilgrimages, always simultaneous, and as brief as we can get away with.
Our family could be a good deal worse, but it could also be much better. On a scale of 0-10, with 0 being the Mansons and 10 being the Cleavers, I'd put us at about a 4 -- we function, but only within our prescribed geographic parameters and with a healthy dose of denial and fear of confrontation thrown in for good measure.
I wish I could be like David Sedaris. He writes about his family all the time at their worst and weakest moments, but does so in a way that it clearly comes from a place of love. I love my family but sometimes I wonder if that's only because you're supposed to. As you read this, if you think I sound horribly mean-spirited and ungrateful, keep in mind that I hate feeling like this. It's an ugly side of me that I'd rather not have. Yet at the same time they just make me SO. CRAZY. (I'll cut for length, because my demons are legion.)
Mom: The Voices In Her Head Are Louder Than Yours
The most annoying thing about my mother is her complete inability to edit. When she tells a story, she doesn't leave anything out. At all. Worse, relevance to any current conversation or potential interest to her audience are strictly optional. Dialogue is recounted in excruciatingly minute detail. Characters are introduced with exhaustive (and I mean that in both definitions of the word) back stories, whether you were curious about them or not. Every day an endless droning commentary on the mundane and uninteresting, until I'm literally fantasizing of pounding my head against the wall in a bid for unconsciousness. The irony is I was somehow raised with too great a sense of courtesy to just tune her out, a handicap she apparently doesn't have.
All my life the most predominant impression I've gotten from my mother is that she never listens when I talk. Anecdotes of my day were always met with a faint "Mmmmmmmhmmmmm," when they were acknowledged at all. This was resoundingly confirmed on this trip. Several times my younger sister (Amy) and I were having a conversation when mom would just butt in with whatever was on her mind at that moment (which was never remotely related to what we were talking about at the time). Finally I snapped and yelled, "Mom, I'm speaking! Can you wait until I finish?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize" was her first excuse. Then it happened twice more over the following week, with me snapping at her both times, until on the last day she finally seemed to learn to check in first before talking.
My two theories are A) she really is that rude, or B) she really is so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she honestly doesn't even hear anyone talking. I'm not sure which choice is easier to live with. In her defense, Amy has dim memories of our grandmother and she said she was exactly the same way if not worse. As a result, both Amy and I are determined not to end up like this.
It's draining to be talked at for four days straight, and inevitably our restraint becomes frayed and both Amy and I start responding with cutting, horrible remarks to be made by a child to a mother. We feel terrible about it, but we're only human. What other response is there to grossly inaccurate blanket generalizations such as "Illegal immigrants only come to this country to kill Americans" based on one incident? (I thought at first she meant terrorists, not Mexicans) Or being infuriated at having to select English or Spanish from automated phone menus?
My mother is a tad racist, though she'd be horrified to be thought of as such. Every non-white character in her stories has a racial assignation (i.e., Nympha, the Filipino nurse). She also uses them repeatedly, as my other sister Nancy complained, "Mom, you've been talking about Nympha for 3 years now. I KNOW she's Filipino." so I guess Amy and I aren't the only ones whose tempers wear thin. She has a particular intolerance for Mexicans (though only since moving to California) and believes (and freely spews) every negative stereotype she's ever heard. I made the mistake of defending illegal immigrants, and Amy later told me that as soon as I left the room she accused me of being "too altruistic" and that I "must not have many Mexicans in Colorado." Maybe next time she visits we'll take a drive down Colfax, or Federal, or Martin Luther King Blvd, or down to Pueblo or Alamosa.
Amy asked her solution to illegal immigration. "Tighten up the borders!" she replied. Why didn't the government think of that? Silly Bush administration.
When normal conversation isn't tense enough, she brings up politics. She's fiercely loyal to Obama though can't say why, as well as vitriolically opposed to Hilary (though can't say why). Amy asked what Obama proposed to do about illegal immigration, and she had no idea. She also thinks Hilary's experience is limited to being First Lady, and won't be convinced otherwise. There are few things more dangerous than an uneducated voter.
She has a habit of asking questions in a way that make things seem more complicated than they are. She has one of those automatic shower cleaners in her bathroom (not nearly enough for the task at hand; more later). She asked me, "Do you know how to work it?" "Ummmm, press the big blue button?" I hazarded a guess, it being the only button on it. I went to mop her kitchen floor (desperately in need of it, or else I would never mop on my vacation) and she asked me if I knew how to use the mop. "I thought I did" I answered. It turned out I did, but her asking implied there was more to it than met the eye. She asked Amy if she needed help with the clothes washer, as if we both hadn't been washing our own clothes for decades now. Is it any wonder we get a wee bit snippy?
Last three peeves: She insists on introducing us to everyone who crosses her path (waitresses, store clerks, park rangers, zoo keepers), despite Amy's constantly assuring her that no one cares. We hate having to see that pained smile and forced pretense of interest. Welcome to our world, sir. Second, her house is filthy. Like, you don't want to be barefoot in the bathtub filthy. Like, rooms piled to the ceiling with heaps of stuff filthy. Like those shows where they bring in the cleaning team, and you recoil in horror and disbelief that anyone lives that way filthy. My sister flew back on a red eye and immediately cleaned her condo. Third, she's up to her eyeballs in debt, mostly thanks to buying things for my older sister like cars and houses. More on that later.
After four days of barely holding back from each other's throats, she hugged us goodbye saying how wonderful our visit was and what a good time she had. Remember what I said about denial? We are terrible, terrible children. But we can't help it.
The Nancy Channel: All Nancy, All the Time
Nancy is 13 years older than me, a gap which Tery thinks constitutes a different generation. I'm told when I was born she doted heavily on me, carrying me around in public and often being mistaken for a teenaged mother (quite the scandal back in the 70's). It makes me a little sad to know that we were closest during a period I can't remember. I must have been an awful baby, since Nancy has been adamantly opposed to having children ever since (one thing we see eye-to-eye on).
Nancy's life is fabulous. I know because we heard about little else for 4 straight days. She works for RGIS, the same inventory company I quit escaped from (she got me the job in the first place) and has an endless treasure trove of tales. Unlike my mother, whose stories are often tangential if not completely out of the blue, Nancy's stories are very germane because she rules the conversation with an iron fist. It really is all about her. "Surely she'll grow tired eventually and want to hear about our lives," I whispered to Amy one night as we huddled in our bed. No, not so much. Any attempt to interject something into the discussion is met with a blank stare, no doubt surprise at hearing someone else's voice . Our stories are only of value as a stepping stone to the next topic Nancy wants to cover.
More than anything, both my mother and Nancy remind me strongly of a quote from Fight Club: They are just waiting for their turn to speak (and in my mother's case, not even waiting that long).
Nancy is also terribly irresponsible with money. She's declared bankruptcy at least twice (to my knowledge) and her credit is utterly irreparable. Hence she is dependent on my mother for a lot more than a 51-year-old woman should be. Despite not even being able to afford lunch and having her bank card cancelled (THAT was a fun afternoon), she lives quite extravagantly. It's nearly pathological: She has a $7000 embroidery machine (gift from mom); her newest vehicle is a Limited Edition Nissan Xterra with stadium seating, roof rack and booster step (co-signed by mom); she bought a $1200 37-inch HDTV because they sell them at Home Depot (she gets an employee discount, reason enough); and she has plans to remodel her bathroom in black marble (don't even ask me how this will be financed).
I asked Mom where this need to have the best of the best comes from. Mom blames it on Russ (the husband. More later). "She really did get a good deal on the Nissan," she justified. "But surely there were other options besides the Limited Edition" I pointed out. Mom just smiled helplessly. I can't point fingers, I needed a loan from my mother to help with my Honda, but the difference is I'm paying back every penny.
Mom and Nancy have three dogs now (I categorize them together since Mom built a house on Nancy's property and the dogs go back and forth between them): Anubis, Nancy's black English springer spaniel (kind of twitchy around anyone but Nancy, came from an abusive home); Fiona, Mom's dalmatian/lab mix; and the newest, little Fur Elise, a giant schnauzer puppy. Elise came along because Nancy hinted strongly at Christmas that she wanted a puppy. When Mom ignored the hints, she insisted they go to the pound together to pick one out. She technically is Mom's despite Nancy being the impetus for taking her home, making it possible for Nancy to become miffed every time she messes in her house. "Well, I guess it's too much for her OWNER to keep an eye on her," she sniffs. As with everything else, Amy and I bite our tongues.
Me and Elise. She is kind of a cutie
I love Nancy's house (bought by mom). She's got nearly as much stuff as our mother, but she is ruthlessly organized. The problem is all three inhabitants (her, Russ and their co-worker roommate) are smokers and it doesn't take long before you feel like you're in a bar, with burning eyes, stinging nostrils and stinky clothes. So this was our choice during the visit, to hang out at the bar or at the "How Clean is Your House?" house.
Nancy has always had radical haircuts favoring a closely-cropped crewcut, often resembling Annie Lennox. In her old age she's opted for bleach blonde, hair as well as eyebrows, so she looks a bit like the love child of Eminem and Ziggy Stardust. It's a bit disconcerting to look at.
Nancy is more bearable than Mom (at least her stories are more entertaining), but days of hearing all about her without even an attempted effort to appear curious about us are just as wearying. I asked Tery why she thinks Amy and I grew up with relatively superior social skills -- she thinks we had each other to bounce off of and influence, and we each thank god for that.
Russell: Your Bose Headphones Aren't Good Enough For Him
Russell is by far the easiest to deal with of the three. At least with him you feel like you're actually in a two-way conversation. Easygoing, laidback, with a taste for looking at naked Asian women (I can hardly throw stones, given my Snarry obsession). He's harmless, trained as a professional photographer but lacking the ambition to get paid for it. He puts up with a lot of shit between my mom and Nancy, so we cut him a lot of slack. They've been married happily for 33 years, mostly due to his willingness to let Nancy wear the pants, so to speak. Russell's biggest flaw is his taste for the finer things in life, as well as knowing more than you do about, well, everything.
While my mother is forced out of retirement to pay for two mortgages, Russ sits at the computer shopping for $500 stereo receivers. The problem is the low-end receivers don't have hookups for a record player (he's a hippie and owns more vinyl than CDs). Adapters won't work because it would always bug him knowing there was an extra attachment back there. Why suffer with that when there are units that have it built in already? This is the kind of perfection he demands while making probably not much more money than me.
For whatever reason, the subject turned to headphones. He had shopped high and low for his, finally settling on some F70's (I'm probably substituting the actual model here. I stopped paying close attention when he said they were $400). I told him how much I love the Bose that Tery bought me, and he said kind of smugly, "Don't ever listen to the F70's then." Okay, it's a deal. Because I like being happy with what I can afford and not forever pursuing the highest quality everything.
Perhaps that's why I found it so bothersome that their 37-inch TV wasn't set to the proper widescreen ratio, and we watched Pirates of the Caribbean 3 with thick black bars on top and bottom. Hannibal Rising was just as bad. Why buy this huge TV if you aren't going to use as much of the screen as you can? I would have offered to fix it if I thought they would take me at all seriously.
Everything in Russell's life is a constant one-upmanship. Walking around the San Diego Zoo, someone commented on it being all up hill. I said, "Yeah, kind of like Edinburgh. The entire city is uphill, both ways." Russell responded, "Well that's how it is in Vermont. Nothing but hills." Yep, Vermont trumps Scotland. Even though he lived there 25 years ago. It seems like a silly thing to be irritated by, but believe me, when it's pervasive it isn't that hard. No one at any point asked me anything at all about my trip to England.
Russell and birthday cake. We call him the Bumble since he had to have all his teeth removed after a lifetime of smoking. This ensemble earned him the nickname "Hugh Hefner" for the night as well
Amy: My Best Friend in the World
Finally, there's my little sis Amy. She's a year younger than me. We talk at least once a week and are I think the closest of any two people in our family. The only thing to be said about her is she has the shortest fuse of us all (Scorpio) and is the first to get testy. She apparently once wrote a long letter to my mother explaining the problems she has relating to her, and expressing a wish to have a closer relationship. This was met with my mother's typical indifference. Amy has been in therapy because of her problems with our mother. She and Nancy went so long without talking that Amy thought Nancy was mad at her, and that suited Amy just fine. Amy was the only thing that made this trip even close to bearable (even though I was only there for her sake to begin with).
Amy and Elise, who she decided she could tolerate after a few glasses of wine
Here we all are. Don't we look so normal and happy? Lies, all lies.
Back Row: Me, Nan and Amy. Front Row: Mom.
I'm not bothering to friends-lock this entry because, as you can see, even if my family knew about my journal they wouldn't bother to read it.
As an indicator of the stress I experienced on this trip, literally the second I got on the plane home I was hit with a monster of a head cold. I blame my family because I read that stress increases cortisol levels which weaken immunity. My levels must have been off the charts all week. I also read that a recommended relaxation activity is journaling, something I was unable to do all week. So here I am. This is my therapy session.
While I was gone, Tery brought this little guy home:
Baby Malcolm. The toy behind him is the size of my palm, to give you an idea how tiny he is
Am I surprised she couldn't wait for me to get home? No. She wandered into Petco and he apparently had just arrived from New York that morning, so it was almost like Fate. He had only been in the store for a few hours, so hadn't had time to be socialized (or, as in Duncan's case, anti-socialized). A perfect little blank slate for us to raise properly.
Stalking the Kitten