Why I’m like this

I crawled out of bed early this morning to return to work - I hadn’t been in the office since December 12. Needless to say, I’ve spent the day trying to recover.

I dread Sundays, because I have some painful memories of attending religious activities and the day is irrevocably smothered by thoughts of Monday morning. If I’m gallivanting joyously on Saturday night, there’s always that echoing faucet drip of a thought that, “Great. Now I’ll have a hard time going to sleep on Sunday, and an even harder time getting out of bed bright and early on Monday.”

Last night, I found my solution. Wine. And an 88th birthday party. TBID’s grandfather, an adorable man (who responded when I asked his thoughts on being the patriarch over Thanksgiving, “It’s pretty strange that I’m ancient enough to be called a patriarch”) turned the big eight-eight surrounded by food, drink, and family. There was much hectoring of his gal pal, a matriarch herself. TBID got to talking about the best possible topics for family gatherings, Israel and U.S. involvement in 9/11. Unfortunately, other crowd pleasers, like the death penalty and which party-goer should be sacrificed in the event of an emergency, were interrupted by food.

I like TBID’s family, because there’s always a lot of gentle sarcasm and open neuroses and at least one Woody Allen reference. Last night, his parents were recounting one of their fights before they were married. The one where one parent, perturbed by a stolen tomato, literally tossed some salad at another. The other stormed out of the restaurant, tomato in belly and murder in eyes. There was a similar story about another dining experience in which a scorching hot lobster fell off a plate and into TBID’s mom’s lap. “Then the waiter said, ‘Lady, that’s the worst case of crabs I’ve ever seen!’” TBID’s uncle interjected.

At one point, there were some jokes about pedophilia and this description of a documentary in the seemingly-tame-animal-eats-humans-mercilessly category. As I laughed, I thought, “I get it now.” This is why TBID will go out of his way and rent a car to go eat sliders at this special spot in New Jersey. This is why he doesn’t bat an eye at the weird comments I make. “I think you might be more negative that me, and I didn’t think that was possible,” he said to me once, beaming.

Good times and a Sunday saved, I fell asleep on the way back home, thinking of my own family. Lately, I dream of weird situations with them. My sister becomes a singer-songwriter and sings these weird songs to the tune of “Amazing Grace.” My mom does not want me to lose this sheet of paper that keeps blowing away in a parking lot, probably the one at Wal-Mart, where she just needs to pick up “a few things” and will get sidetracked. For two hours. My dad adopts a clown after watching a compelling TV commercial narrated by Laurie Metcalfe.

It’s all so crazy and far away and me.

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