The Everywhereist

I know this picture is blurry, but it’s still kind of magical. My mom was angry because I was doing dishes in her house.

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Dear Mom,

Please don’t read this post, okay? No, no, it’s not because I talk about how crazy you are. Sheesh, mom … Yes, I know you aren’t crazy. Yes, I realize I make you out to be crazier than you actually are on the blog. The reason I don’t want you to read this post is because it’s about your Mother’s Day gift. We don’t want to ruin the surprise, right? Of course we don’t.

So go browse some other site, okay? Like Facebook! You love Facebook.

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Sometimes, I take for granted how much my husband puts up with.

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Indeed, that might be the understatement of the year. If my beloved is reading this, he’s probably done a spit take all over his computer while sputtering, “YOU THINK?”

My poor, maligned love. He puts up with a lot. From me. And during the holidays, from his in-laws, too. Which I argue is his fault.

I mean, I was born into them. I had no choice. He walked right into this situation, mostly sober. THE FOOL.

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My dear, confusing mother.

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I’ve just returned from California. I spent several days spent in the company of my family, which is always a fascinating experience. Nothing makes me question reality more.

I’ve tried explaining to my friends that my relations see things differently than the rest of the world, but my point is often lost.

“All families are insane,” they say, nodding sympathetically. And then they’ll tell me about some aunt of theirs with an excessive collection of hat pins and no hats, and laugh at how ridiculous the whole thing is.

Hat pins! How delightfully zany!

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Sometimes, I suck.

I mean, big time. Several of you are reading those lines and thinking, “Oh, yes, I know. I was just about to leave a comment on your blog expressing that EXACT same sentiment.”

Others of you are thinking, “Well, sure, you suck, but who among us does not?” And for your gracious understanding, I thank you.

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It was bound to happen. Rand and I take a lot of photos. But this is basically like spotting bigfoot:

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This is a photo of my father. SMILING. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

This, for him, is pretty much grinning maniacally.

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I like to describe my brother as a triple threat: he’s an actor. And an asshole. And he’s my brother.

That counts as three things, right?

Oh, and occasionally he takes photos of things. Which you’d think would make him a quadruple threat. But really, most of his pictures just reinforce the fact that he’s kind of an asshole.

And with that preamble, I give you this week’s Tuesday Reverie:

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Yes, he took the above picture. Yes, I was annoyed. And yes, I may have laughed a little, too.

See? Triple threat.

In my family, I have six male cousins, all of whom are older than me. Add to the mix my big brother, and I was left the sole girl amongst 7 boys.

They read comics and played Atari, and sometimes I got to watch.

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It is the first Monday of the new year, and I am sure many of you, like me, are in the throes of a rather nasty vacation hangover. I can picture you, wherever you may find yourself (at the office; in a minivan full of children you don’t really know or like; in central holding as you await bail for a crime that you are fairly certain you didn’t commit), an errant piece of tinsel still in your hair, a few crumbs (remnants of a long-ago eaten holiday treat) grazing your lips. You whisper, “I do not want to be here,” but no one responds. Your current fate is now more tortuous than watching a Nick Cage movie marathon.

Or perhaps you are of one the lucky few who has woken up, bright and early, bursting with energy and excitement about all the new year has to offer. In which case I don’t think we can be friends, because you probably also enjoy tetanus shots, jogging, and eating an apple for dessert.

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