There are times when I wished I knew how to forge a few entries in my birth certificate so I could prove I don’t belong to this family so I don’t have to go through days like these. They’re not bad people, but seriously, the things I have to put up with.
Today’s ordeal was going to happen at my sister’s house, or, as I like to call it, "Bores-the-fucking-hell-out-of-me" Manor. The turkey in this house had been primped since 3 days ago. By my dad. Amazing how someone so crass can make turkey taste so good.
Things started to go downhill when I was told I was the designated driver. Which meant that the whole trip would be reduced to people all around me screaming: "you’re going too fast!", "slow down!", "why didn’t you skip that hole?", "watch out for that car!", etc.
Then I notice they start packing up the instruments.
Brace yourself for a little back-story…
You see, I live with a family of musicians. Mom sings, dad and bro play instruments, the only "musical outcasts" are me and my sister, but at least she learned to play the gitar and got to play alongside my dad in her youth. Me? I memorized the little black and white dots on the musical pentagram because I was obligated to do so. Me and my siblings, when we lived back in D.R., had always taken music classes since very young, the only one who really got something out of them was my brother, who plays about 6 or 7 intruments. I never cared about music lessons. To me they were like schoolwork. An obligation, not a passion.
However, I do have a very trained ear for recognizing when something or someone is out of tune. Guess that was one of the unwanted benefits of those lessons, I am definitely not and have never been tone-deaf. If I hear a sour note on a song, I cringe.
Back to the diatribe. Packing instruments meant only one thing. Goddamn, motherfucking parrandas. To me, they have grown to be the most depressing, repetitive, ridiculous, annoying way to celebrate a holiday. An every year my family feels the need to spread that deadly musical virus to every event they’re invited to. Someone says christmas party, my dad is already loading the car with guitars, piano, accordion, güiro, and a harp. Yes, a fucking five foot tall, wooden harp. Which he built himself and my brother plays. Isn’t that one of the most Divine Comedy-ish shit you’ve ever heard?!
Well, it could be worse, a few years ago they practically forced me to play the güiro, until I took a stand and said FUCK OFF. Don’t they know how horrible it feels to scratch a metal comb against a coarse surface, also made of metal? (yes, a metal güiro. Now that’s harcore Dominican.)
They still resent my decision to not ever lay hands upon that satanic contraption.
After the food and the instruments are loaded, we board the car and start our pilgrimage to the Manor. Just as I suspected, I not only had backseat drivers, but passenger seat drivers as well. I think I spoke about two words during the trip, and they were either yes or no answers.
After being bashed for the way I drive for 20 minutes, we arrive. Soon after, I’m standing in a corner looking at the floor, while a full-fledged parranda threatens to shatter every glass in the house. More than once my mother urged me to pick up an intrument and play, and I gave her the nastiest of looks as she threw a tambourine on my lap. If I even touched that damn thing, I would become the Token Tambourine Boy the whole fucking christmas season.
I picked up the damn thing and put it aside with marked disgust. My sister’s husband’s mother (Who from here on will be known as FOC, or Fucking Old Crone) noticed how uneasy I felt and said it out loud. Just what I need, you ancient bitch, more attention directed towards me.
FOC kept saying stupid things the whole night. I still don’t understand the nature of this woman. She is so ignorant, so unaware of everything, just so plain clueless, that each and every thing that came out of her mouth made me wanna slap her with the back of my hand real hard.
I spent the whole night sitting far from the hoopla, but not too far, so as not to be labeled a party-pooping antisocial. Everybody seemed to take boredom as a personal insult.
But I wasn’t bored. I was just plain old sad. All I wished for was to share this night with my significant other, to gorge on humongous amounts of food and drink with HIM, not these boisterous freaks. And the fact that I couldn’t even explain to them why I felt so down made it even worse. I would have loved to see their faces:
- Them: "What the fuck is wrong with you, why the long face?"
- Me: "I miss my boyfriend"
- Sound of jaws hitting the floor
After the concert came the binging. FOC took over the kitchen and served my plate with exactly everything I didn’t want. I had to take another plate and serve myself so as not to bludgeon her with a plastic fork. After stuffing my face, I discovered something that made the rest of the night oh-so-heavenly: A bottle of Bailey’s standind lonely and abandoned on the table. Ahhhhh… Thank you, Ireland. I had about 3 glasses on the rocks.
Afterwards, everybody made a failed attempt at a second "musical overture", but they were so full that they gave up after about 5 minutes. Thank the Gods.
Later on, the attention focused on my brother, who for some reason has never had a girlfriend, and all the other men in the house except my dad offered themselves as pimps. I stood quiet, because if I opened my mouth for an opinion on his behavior I would skewer him worse than I would do to FOC. He has so many issues he deserves a blog entry alone.
By that time I am annoyed that no spot in the house is private enough for me to call my man. Fucking people everywhere, like roaches.
A few minutes later people start to go, and so do we. I am thanking all the divinities in existence as I start the car, and it seems one of them heard me, because the trip back was much less annoying.
Maybe because of the Bailey’s.
Anyway, I guess on this day we’re supposed to give thanks or some shit for the good things in life. Fine.
*pussy alert*pussy alert*pussy alert*pussy alert*pussy alert*pussy alert*pussy alert*
I am greatly, utterly, incredibly, hugely thankful that HE came into my life and brought some sense, happiness and much needed affection into it.
Errrrr… What? huh? did I just… I mean… What I meant was… The…
Bah! fuck you all.
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by el amigo de Wilfre November 27th, 2004 at 4:27 pmI am also really grateful that you came into my life, you brought into my life a much needed happiness, you brought me the joy of living, the joy of love, you made me discover parts of my personality that I didn’t knew existed, and most important of all, you bring out the best part of me, and for that I thank you.
P.S.
by DarK SouL November 28th, 2004 at 10:16 pmI love you a whole fucking lot! CABRON!