Oh well. At least the bright side was that by making this a family get-together, I could potentially kill several birds with one stone via this trip. So that being said, we got to my grandparents’ place. Grandma was quick to point out how thin and sickly I looked and Pop (grandpa) was quick to engage me in a handshake (aka, a squeeze until one of us says mercy contest. Damn, the old guy is strong!). Shaking my hand to get the feeling back, I turned and noticed this stunning creature entering the room. Wondering if perhaps Pop had finally traded up to that supermodel he’d been threatening Grandma with for the last...well forever years, I suddenly found myself preparing to offer my smoothest hello along with perhaps a suggestion we ditch the old people and find a nice quiet restaurant.
There I was; starting to think that maybe this trip was going to have some unexpected perks when I heard Grandma from the kitchen.
“Cathy, come back here and help me set the table after you’ve said hi.”
Cathy? As in cousin Cathy? As in little cousin Cathy, who I hadn’t seen in about ten years? And no, we’re not talking second cousins or ‘cousin’ in the sense of family friend here. We’re talking first cousin, the daughter of Mom’s sister type cousin. AKA the kind you don’t hit on unless you happen to be a backwoods Arkansas redneck. So, not being a backwoods Arkansas redneck (although a life in Appalachia was starting to sound pretty damn good ...*ARGH* Must...wash...out...brain...with...bleach!), instead of opening with my planned “Hey, baby!” line, I instead opted for a less creepy, “Hi!”
Turns out she had just graduated and was starting work as an elementary school teacher (Hot For Teacher indeed! *GAH!* I’m doing it again. Sorry, let’s just get back to the story and forget all about this disturbing little interlude, shall we? Pretty please!).
Anyhow, after everything settled back down, I pulled out the pictures that I had brought for Mom and showed them around. Karen was in one of the photographs and Pop asked who she was. I told him we were seeing each other and then he started in on me:
“So have you proposed to her yet?”
“What?”
“When are you getting married?”
“WHAT!?”
“I don’t know how much longer I have left, but I’d like to hang on long enough to see some great-grandkids.”
“Uh yeah. OK, Pop. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
If that’s the main reason he’s still kicking around on this mortal plane, then he’ll be sticking around for a bit longer. Don’t get me started on the many reasons why I don’t want to go and put on a slave bracelet...err wedding ring.
NOTES TO SELF:
1) Come back later with some whiteout and delete this entire section. Cousins, marriage, all of it!
2) Write the rest of this stupid thing in pencil!
As for kids, I can only imagine what kind of frigged up genetics I’d be inflicting on the next generation. Besides which, as I’ve already mentioned, I don’t particularly get along well with kids, albeit that’s really only partially their fault.
Case in point, I remember back a few years. I was at a local pharmacy picking up some shampoo. Some mother was a few aisles over not paying attention to her little darlings. So instead, they wandered over to where I was: running, screaming, bumping into me, and just overall being more proof that there’s no problem with kids that a good ass-kicking won’t solve.
So anyway, the little lovelies found some of that magic shower foam they sell in various cartoon character containers. They started screaming to mom that they had to have them. I finally had enough of this invasion of my personal shampoo shopping space and turned to the kids and quietly said, “You don’t want these.”
“YES WE DO! I WANT BEAUTY AND THE BEAST!”
“I WANT POWER RANGERS!”
“No you don’t,” I said picking up the one of the Disney themed ones. “You see, after the movie ended, the Beast bit Belle and gave her...RABIES!” at which point I started squirting the foam at the once again screaming, but this time in terror, kiddies.
Sure they kicked me out of the store and asked me never to return, but goddamn that was funny.
You’re probably wondering if this has anything to do with Mom or my grandparents. Well, it doesn’t. Just thinking about that, though, always brings a smile to my face. Nevertheless, hopefully the point is made. Kids and I do not a good combo make. Anyway, where was I?
Ah yes! I momentarily excused myself from Pop’s verbal grilling to go catch up with Grandma and the other assorted aunts and uncles who had started filtering in, hoping that in the meantime pop would forget all about the wedding he was mentally planning for me. I walked into the kitchen to find Mom in the middle of boasting about me, or more precisely boasting about herself and the effect she’s had on me.
See, in Mom’s minds eye she is apparently the uber-mother, without whom I, her mentally challenged son, would be lost. Thus every single one of my accomplishments can be traced directly back to her; at least that’s how she sees it.
Thus I found her proudly showing off my play and explaining how she inspired me (???) to dig deep into myself to write it. She then went on about how good it was (she hadn’t read it yet!) and how she was able to set a good example and give me the motivation (it had nothing to do with her!) to finish it.
I quickly came to the conclusion that any stepping in on my part was just going to end with me yelling at her and looking like a jackass, thus I decided to let her have her moment. I’m hopeful the rest of the family has enough brain cells to recognize bullshit when they step in it. Not all of them, mind you, but hopefully at least a few.
I instead slipped back in with Pop and steered him towards his navy stories. Those are always a great way to kill a few hours as he has a ton of them. He was in pretty much every major battle in the Pacific theatre during World War Two and he’s not shy about letting you know about it. Today’s batch of tales was about a bunch of Japanese POW’s one of his squads captured. I sat tight and listened with mouth shut, making sure to not bring up any of the Asian girls I’ve dated in the past. Pop’s pretty well adjusted, all things considered, but the last thing I ever want to do is send him spiraling off in some sort of flashback. That would probably just result in an embarrassing beating by an octogenarian.
Finally we were called in for dinner. Overall it was fairly low key, lots of food and, for the most part, nothing more than small talk. Mom apparently had burned herself out with the earlier bragging to the family and she more or less behaved.
After dessert, I asked Mom if she was ready to go home. She told me that she was going to crash there and one of my aunts could drive her home tomorrow. OK, so now I had an hour long drive by myself back down to the shore (since all my stuff was in a hotel down there as opposed to up where I was, nice and close to the airport). Now we’re up to about four hours of wasted time on the roads because Mom can’t plan stuff out for shit.
I said my goodbyes to the family and then was finally let go about an hour later after Pop’s obligatory ‘be sure to visit more often since I’m not long for this world’ speech that he’s been giving for the past decade. After that, it was another several minutes shouting back and forth with Grandma. See, Grandma is partly deaf but refuses to wear a hearing aid. She also apparently thinks I’m a complete moron.
“Do you know how to get back?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“I said do you know how to get back?”
“YES, GRANDMA!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’M SURE.”
“Because it’s raining and I know how easily you get lost.”
“I KNOW HOW TO GET BACK!”
“You’re positive?”
“YES! I KNOW HOW TO GET FUCKING BACK! I AM NOT A GODDAMN RETARD! BESIDES WHICH, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO JUDGE? YOU GET LOST WALKING TO THE FUCKING STORE DOWN THE STREET! NOW LET ME GO BECAUSE EVEN IF I DO GET LOST, AT LEAST I WON’T HAVE TO LISTEN ABOUT IT ANYMORE!”
Once again, I may have only said
that last part in my mind.
Christmas 2001
The next year was pretty quiet. Not a lot of weirdness to speak of, at least nothing really worth writing about. But, much like Haley’s Comet, the strangeness always comes back.
Christmas itself was fairly low key, but the day afterwards Mom had asked me to drop her off at the grandparents’ house again. This time it was all planned, so no excessive bitching on my part about the trip. Well except for maybe this one little slice of conversation during the ride up...
For some reason Mom changed whatever subject we were on to that of cable TV. “Do you have Cinemax or HBO?” she asked.
“Just Cinemax,” I answered, thinking this was a safe enough conversation.
“Do you ever watch it late at night?” (Oh shit! Danger, Will Robinson! DANGER!)
“Um, not really,” I truthfully answered. Yes I said truthfully! Fine, don’t believe me! How dare you insinuate I sully my eyes with such smut! Err anyway, Mom continued...
“Well I do. The other night I was watching TV when I clicked it on and there was this couple on the screen really going at it.”
“That’s...nice,” I stammered, hoping that either the conversation would end or perhaps an eighteen wheeler would suddenly decide to sideswipe us.
Neither happened, sadly.
“There was this girl going at it with another girl.”
(You owe me one, God. Make it stop!)
“Suddenly it turned into a threesome.”
(Yahweh, Shiva, Odin? Anyone out there listening?)
“I couldn’t stop watching.”
(Fuck you, universe!)
“I was up until five in the morning, it got me so hot.”
It was then that I turned a sharp right and drove us off the side of a bridge.
Well OK, I didn’t. But damn, if it didn’t sound like a good idea.
June 2001
This one almost counted as a vacation of sorts. It was early summer and Mom was pestering me for a visit. My girlfriend at the time, Jennifer, loved the idea of spending a weekend at the Jersey shore (Why? I have no idea. As far as I was concerned, she was definitely one of the loopy ones). Despite my best efforts to warn her off, she insisted that not only should I pay a visit but that she would come along as well.
We got in fairly late and crashed as soon as we arrived at the hotel. The next morning I awoke to find myself alone in bed. Normally this sort of thing doesn’t surprise me, but since I had gone to sleep with a female next to me I was a bit confused. I sat up and noticed that Jennifer was sitting across the room in the loveseat. She told me that she couldn’t sleep. When I asked her why, she remained moot. Further questioning only made it evident that she was apparently giving me the cold shoulder. Wondering what evils I may have done during the night, I decided to leave it be for the time being.
The silence persisted throughout breakfast and our preparations to meet Mom. Finally in the car, she broke down with what was bothering her.
“You killed them all,” she said softly and somewhat sadly.
“Huh?”
“All of my friends.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last night. I had a dream that you killed everyone I knew.”
“OK and...” I confusedly replied.
“And you really enjoyed doing it. You were a real psycho bastard!”
“Uh huh,” I said, thinking that there was indeed a psycho in the car, but it wasn’t me. “Did I kill you too?”
“No. Just all of my friends.”
“Then I don’t see what the big deal is,” I responded, closing the case on that mystery.
We made a quick stop for gas and then got to Mom’s place. She immediately started badgering us about whether we had brought our swimsuits. I told her we left them in the hotel. She then told me that asshole landlord had installed a pool a few weeks earlier and then immediately laid in on us about how we didn’t come prepared for it.
“Probably because this is the first I’m hearing about it, Mom,” was my answer.
Mom then went on to tell me about some of her further adventures with asshole landlord, none of which I could have cared one iota about. Why do I need to hear about someone I don’t like? She then finished with this lovely tidbit, “He was upset when I told him you broke up with Karen. He said she had a nice rack.”
“Thanks for the info, Mom,” was all I could grumble. In my head I could hear a clicking noise as my rating for him dropped a few notches from asshole to major asshole.
Fortunately, Jennifer had zoned out during most of this, otherwise I’m sure I would have gotten an earful of, “So that whore you used to date (just a few jealousy issues, no?) had nice tits? You probably think they’re nicer then mine (well, not to judge...but they were).”
It turned out to be a good thing we hadn’t brought out swimsuits, as a short while later some of the asshole landlord’s no-doubt scumbag friends showed up to swim. I don’t like to prejudge, but let’s face facts; assholes tend to run in packs. You would be hard pressed to get me to change my mind as this group brought a whole lot of libations with them in the form of cheap beer and a gigantic jug of wine. You tell me. They were friends with an asshole and enjoyers of Keystone light and three-dollar a gallon wine. Was I truly wrong to form an opinion here? I didn’t think so.
Sadly, my bookish sensibilities and passing knowledge of what it means to be low class aren’t shared by my own family. Thus Mom was happy to help herself to the jug-wine, all the while complaining how cheap it was and how bad it tasted. This continued for several glasses. Never once apparently did the thought of, If it tastes so bad...DON’T DRINK IT! pass through her head.
Mom and drink don’t mix well. She’s the exact opposite of the proverbial happy drunk, thus I sensed a downward spiral was beginning. I’ve been there before. They usually culminate with a quick glance at my watch and a, “Well, will you look at the time. Gotta go. Bye!” followed by an attempt to set a new land speed record driving away.
If you’re expecting an exception here, I’m sorry to disappoint. When she has a few, Mom can cycle through a lot of different emotions, all negative. Tonight the wheel of misfortune decided to settle upon whine, a perfect compliment to the cheap wine.
First, Mom decided to go on a tirade about all of her friends and what ingrates they all are. Jennifer tried to inject a little sanity by asking her why she considered them her friends if they were so horrible. Not a bright move, as that just subjected us to more reasons why nobody was living up to her lofty standards.
Next up, sensing perhaps that her hospitality was lacking, she offered us a bite to eat. Mind you, her brilliant idea was to offer us this Polish dish she occasionally makes which consists of jellied pig feet. I have no idea what it’s called, something unpronounceable, and I don’t care as I find it completely inedible. She knows this and under soberer conditions would know better. But alas that was not to be. So instead we got her trying to force feed us pig jelly and then whining and carrying on because we were being ungrateful.
Us not being hungry then set her off on another tangent. She asked again if we were sure that we didn’t want to go for a swim. Because, if I had changed my mind, she was sure asshole landlord had a spare pair of swim trunks I could borrow. Let me just point out, I cannot even fathom under what circumstances she would think I would be desperate enough for a swim to do that. If it was the Fountain of Youth itself and had a sign that read Eternal youth and happiness awaits. Ye just need to done yon asshole’s shorts, I would happily grow old and turn to dust.
Stupidly, I actually said that last part out loud to Mom. That was a major mistake as it apparently signaled the whining to take a break and for maudlin depression to step in for a while. Mentioning turning to dust got her started on a death-kick. I swear; there must be some sort of textbook that gets handed out to people over fifty, instructing them to inundate the young(er) with talk of their impending doom. The problem is; the first time you hear it y
ou get kind of scared and wonder if something is really wrong. The five-thousandth time you hear it from the same person, usually long after a decade has passed, it starts to lack the same punch it once had. It’s like a store that’s been holding a going out of business sale for the past ten years.
Starting to get annoyed, I mentioned as such and this set off the drunken crocodile tears. I don’t care! I’m a bad son! Nobody loves her. She’s going to die all alone! Nobody’s going to respect her dying wishes. And so on and so on, until such time as I could feel my teeth beginning to crack from grinding them so hard.
Just as I was about to reach my limits and completely blow, who should come to my rescue? Yep, it was asshole landlord. Well OK, maybe rescue isn’t the right word. He knocked on the door to bitch about something, but that signaled depression to call it a day and for spite to come out and play. This kicked off about ten minutes of them yelling at each other about something stupid and insignificant (or at least I assume so. Can’t say that I cared enough to listen) before he stormed off.
I used that distraction to signal Jen that it was time to go. She had the good graces to not argue. We got up to thank Mom for the visit in the manner of, “Oh will you look at the time!” Thus we made our escape, but not before Mom handed me a dish full of the pig-flavored abomination. Of course she insisted I take it, lest I somehow starve to death on the drive back to the hotel.
We stopped at a drive through on the way back and discarded the feast of Satan in a trashcan before it gained sentience and turned on us. We then drove back to the hotel where I was hoping to get a good night sleep, amidst pleasant dreams of killing my family and enjoying it.
* * *
It is here that my tale shall end. For sadly, a short while after this last post, Mom went missing while out on a walk.
No trace of her was ever found. The only clues were signs of a struggle and a glistening trail of slime leading away into the woods. The police said it smelled like pigs feet.
The Poptart Manifesto Page 11