Monday, March 12, 2007

Drinking with the Family

So my phone rings on Saturday morning, and it’s my mother. She has been asking me all week to come into Jersey for Saturday night dinner, and she had finally reached the end of her line. This is a woman who knows how to push and prod, and if need be she can lay on the guilt with the best of them.

I heard every argument she could come up with. There was 1) I needed to see the house (they’re in the middle of putting another addition on it), 2) I needed to see the dog (always an effective argument since I love our dog and she’s ridiculously cute), 3) my brother and his wife might come out with my nephews (a blatant lie since my brother’s out of town this weekend and I knew that, but I respected her effort), 4) I haven’t been out in over a month and my father missed me (a whole month!), 5) she would drive me into Jersey so I wouldn’t have to deal with Penn Station (a good argument actually since I’m lazy), 6) we would go for a manicure/pedicure at this great place that I like (and she would pay), and finally 7) my parents would take me to dinner at this restaurant they know I love.

All in all, I didn’t have a fighting chance. I am the child that can always be dragged home. So I took her up on the ride, got my nails done, didn’t see my brother, his wife, or my nephews, did see the house (why does it keep getting bigger now that all the kids are gone?), did see the dog (cuter than ever – got to love boxers), did see my father, and did go out to dinner where I proceeded to get drunk with my parents.

Now that may seem strange to some people, but you just need to know my parents. They are more fun than most of my friends, and I always have a good time with them. In fact, when my entire family gets together, it’s a guaranteed party. The first few times in my life that I got drunk, my family was right there. Sad but true. And while they didn’t often approve (well, except for my brother who was behind my worst offenses), they always got a good laugh out of it later.

Let’s just say that the first time I ever got drunk I did it spectacularly. I embarrassed everyone, and I did it in front of a large crowd. But that’s a story you won’t be getting. It’s reserved to holidays and my family’s first meetings with my boyfriends – kind of a way to check the guy’s sense of humor (and a way to humiliate me). It’s a multi-purpose story!

Anyway, as I dragged my ass back into Manhattan on Sunday, still recovering from the night before, I started thinking (amazing considering I was hungover). Not about how much I’ve matured (because that doesn’t seem to be happening), but about my family. They’re a cool group. My mom is chill, too sweet for words, ridiculously forgetful, and without a doubt my best friend (all together now…awww). She couldn’t care less about sports, but watches Sportscenter and reads the sports section of the paper every day. She does this because I care. Now she undoubtedly knows more about the Yankees than most fans. It’s adorable since she can’t sit through a game without mentioning how bored she is.

My dad is the serious one. Freakishly smart (I want to know how I didn’t get that gene), totally incapable of having a conversation with me when I clearly have no point (which is basically always), and sneaky funny. He is the stoic one who never shows emotion while my mother will cry at a really sweet commercial. But my dad and I get each other. We have always found the same things funny.

My sister is also serious (like my father), takes care of everyone (oldest child syndrome), but is also all sweet and emotional (like my mother). In fact, once she outgrew the whole torturing me thing, she was awesome. She always tried to keep me out of trouble.

Now my brother, he always seemed to get me into trouble. He may be a father now, but he is still the guy who crazy-glued my hands together and then bet me five bucks that I couldn’t pull them apart (my mom didn’t let him collect after we ended up in the hospital). This is the guy who orchestrated my first drunken night (see above story that won’t actually be told). This is the guy who also almost killed me when I went to visit him in college (without actually meaning to, but let’s not split hairs here).

And that is the story that I’m willing to tell. Tomorrow.

No comments: