Friday Night's Alright For... Well, Not This
I should have refused to go to dinner at my parents' house last Friday. I didn't have any particular plans, but there were plenty of other things I could have been doing.
See, Mom got it into her head that with all of us living in the same area, it would be nice if we got together for dinner every now and then. In theory, this is fine. In practice, the dinner schedule has to revolve around B.'s schedule, and my new sister-in-law works some pretty funky hours. Still, I can't help but think that there must have been some night besides Friday that she didn't work last week.
"Just come over after work," Mom said, just a little too condescendingly. "We won't keep you that late."
"It's free food," Dad IM'd me.
Okay. Fine. Well, not fine, but I believe in choosing my battles. So I got to my parents' house a little after seven, expecting to sit down, eat and be out of there by 8:30.
"They just left half an hour ago," Dad informed me, making no move to help me as I navigated the driveway in entirely the wrong shoes.
Half an hour ago.
On a Friday.
A rainy Friday.
For a drive that takes almost that long when there's no traffic.
Let us pause for a moment here to recall what's happened when I've had a drive take much longer than I anticipated, shall we? (Newer readers may wish to check out the posts about B.'s bridal shower and the wedding rehearsal.) One would suppose, then, that every time the kids called in with a status report, they were yelled at, right?
Not so much.
"He must have learned it from his in-laws," Dad said of G., and turned on the television. "And why did you wear those shoes?"
(Some people have asked me if I feel like I'm in competition with my brother. It's not that, really. I think the problem is that in our parents' determination to treat us the same, they forget that G. and I are very different people, and ultimately end up accomplishing exactly the opposite of what they set out to do. Even G., who arguably comes out with the better deal, thinks it's ridiculous.)
Around 8:30, my parents conceded that we really should just start eating without them. They showed up about 10 minutes later. G. had his usual, "well, what are you gonna do?" demeanor. B.? Not so much.
Once B. had calmed down a little, they joined us at the table. B. proceeded to tell us about people who'd come into the emergency room at which she works. None of the stories ended well. Nothing says "family dinner" like colostomy bags and death!
During dessert, Dad broke the news about the anniversary party that we will be planning. In a concession to reality, he's talked Mom into having it at home. Still, B.'s reaction was about the same as mine: "Um... and we're going to find a caterer at this point... how?"
G., for his part, reminisced about the time my parents had way too much paella delivered for a party. We were eating leftovers for weeks. I still like a good paella, but it took me a while to stop cringing whenever I hear the word.
The parents want music. G. offered to hook up his iPod. Dad's no technological slouch, but he still doesn't quite buy that this is a better idea than pulling out his 5-CD boom box.
Mom suggested renting a dance floor and setting it up in front of the garage. B. and G. kind of choked on their ice cream, leaving me to patiently explain that even if setting out a dance floor weren't a sure-fire way to guarantee that no one will dance, the area in front of the garage isn't exactly ideal for a dance floor. It is only flat and level in comparison to the rest of the yard, and it is not very large. "If people want to dance, they'll dance," I assured Mom, knowing full well that she's the only one who's going to want to dance. If I slip some folk dance music into the iPod mix, I might get a few of her friends up for a few measures. Even then, they'd probably just be getting up for the novelty of dancing with someone their children's age. (Yes, that would be me. Macedonian coceks, German polkas, Japanese bon dances, Israeli horas -- it's amazing what one can learn while one is pursuing an American Studies degree.)
This was about when I started trying to leave, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. Yeah, I know. I should have just left. And I would have, had it still been early enough to do anything. I finally managed to excuse myself at about 10:30. If this happens again, I'm so taking up former 'maid on her generous offer to have plans with me.
The next day, I found this on my father's blog:
When they do it, it's cute. When I do it, it's a catastrophe.
That's it. I'm calling the anniversary party invitations. Let the kids deal with the logistics.
(I know. I say that now, but I'll probably end up helping anyway. If I had any time to see my therapist, I'm sure she'd have a field day with that.)
See, Mom got it into her head that with all of us living in the same area, it would be nice if we got together for dinner every now and then. In theory, this is fine. In practice, the dinner schedule has to revolve around B.'s schedule, and my new sister-in-law works some pretty funky hours. Still, I can't help but think that there must have been some night besides Friday that she didn't work last week.
"Just come over after work," Mom said, just a little too condescendingly. "We won't keep you that late."
"It's free food," Dad IM'd me.
Okay. Fine. Well, not fine, but I believe in choosing my battles. So I got to my parents' house a little after seven, expecting to sit down, eat and be out of there by 8:30.
"They just left half an hour ago," Dad informed me, making no move to help me as I navigated the driveway in entirely the wrong shoes.
Half an hour ago.
On a Friday.
A rainy Friday.
For a drive that takes almost that long when there's no traffic.
Let us pause for a moment here to recall what's happened when I've had a drive take much longer than I anticipated, shall we? (Newer readers may wish to check out the posts about B.'s bridal shower and the wedding rehearsal.) One would suppose, then, that every time the kids called in with a status report, they were yelled at, right?
Not so much.
"He must have learned it from his in-laws," Dad said of G., and turned on the television. "And why did you wear those shoes?"
(Some people have asked me if I feel like I'm in competition with my brother. It's not that, really. I think the problem is that in our parents' determination to treat us the same, they forget that G. and I are very different people, and ultimately end up accomplishing exactly the opposite of what they set out to do. Even G., who arguably comes out with the better deal, thinks it's ridiculous.)
Around 8:30, my parents conceded that we really should just start eating without them. They showed up about 10 minutes later. G. had his usual, "well, what are you gonna do?" demeanor. B.? Not so much.
Once B. had calmed down a little, they joined us at the table. B. proceeded to tell us about people who'd come into the emergency room at which she works. None of the stories ended well. Nothing says "family dinner" like colostomy bags and death!
During dessert, Dad broke the news about the anniversary party that we will be planning. In a concession to reality, he's talked Mom into having it at home. Still, B.'s reaction was about the same as mine: "Um... and we're going to find a caterer at this point... how?"
G., for his part, reminisced about the time my parents had way too much paella delivered for a party. We were eating leftovers for weeks. I still like a good paella, but it took me a while to stop cringing whenever I hear the word.
The parents want music. G. offered to hook up his iPod. Dad's no technological slouch, but he still doesn't quite buy that this is a better idea than pulling out his 5-CD boom box.
Mom suggested renting a dance floor and setting it up in front of the garage. B. and G. kind of choked on their ice cream, leaving me to patiently explain that even if setting out a dance floor weren't a sure-fire way to guarantee that no one will dance, the area in front of the garage isn't exactly ideal for a dance floor. It is only flat and level in comparison to the rest of the yard, and it is not very large. "If people want to dance, they'll dance," I assured Mom, knowing full well that she's the only one who's going to want to dance. If I slip some folk dance music into the iPod mix, I might get a few of her friends up for a few measures. Even then, they'd probably just be getting up for the novelty of dancing with someone their children's age. (Yes, that would be me. Macedonian coceks, German polkas, Japanese bon dances, Israeli horas -- it's amazing what one can learn while one is pursuing an American Studies degree.)
This was about when I started trying to leave, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. Yeah, I know. I should have just left. And I would have, had it still been early enough to do anything. I finally managed to excuse myself at about 10:30. If this happens again, I'm so taking up former 'maid on her generous offer to have plans with me.
The next day, I found this on my father's blog:
The newly weds and [Sib] were here for dinner last night. It took [B.] and [G.] an hour and 45 minutes to travel from [the city in which they live], 14 miles away. Freeway just a crawl and neither one of them is terribly great on alternative routes at night. By the time they called for suggestions the other ways might have been too confusing.
When they do it, it's cute. When I do it, it's a catastrophe.
That's it. I'm calling the anniversary party invitations. Let the kids deal with the logistics.
(I know. I say that now, but I'll probably end up helping anyway. If I had any time to see my therapist, I'm sure she'd have a field day with that.)
posted by sib at 7:04 PM
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