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April 21, 2003
Since last Thursday to today, Monday, I have been at my grandparents' house. My parents took a vacation to Las Vegas, and I took one to Swansea, Massachusetts, which is quite easily the most exciting town on earth. I made a point of being observant these five days, though.
The first day, I went to sleep as soon as I arrived, and napped for about four hours until my cousin Manda informed me that we were going to see Anger Management with her friends. For the record, I hate Swansea accents. It's like the Boston accent through hell and back. Hotdowwgs and Moowlys all over the place. And her friends with all their eighth grade rumors and he said she said and when did you dump her and i want to see that lizzie mcguire movie and adam sandler is cute chatter was simply intolerable. Or untolerable. No, it's intolerable.
Every morning - or afternoon, whatever you consider 11:30, because my grandma is convinced that that is afternoon - I was served one bowl of Cheerios covered in as much sugar as I pleased, and then two waffles. On Saturday morning, as I walked out to the kitchen, Grammy was spying out her window.
"There's people looking at that house."
"What house?" Grampy said.
"The green one, Bob."
Grammy took a set of binoculars off the kitchen table and described the people in detail as they looked at the completely trashed house across the highway (they live on a highway.) She muttered something about just knocking the thing down, that there's no hope to recovering it, then giggled her Grammy laugh.
I sat down in front of my waffles, and in the middle of the table was an upturned shotglass with a bee inside, struggling to escape. Grampy farms bees and sells the honey.
"Why's that bee under that glass?" I asked.
"He bit me," Grampy said, poking the glass. "He's in jail."
He followed his conviction with a series of grunts. A while back, Manda and I would spy on our family, hidden under the kitchen table with a notepad, writing down everything they did. It started as simply Spying On The Boys because my brother and cousin were easier targets, as they just played video games in the basement all day, but we realized we could sneak under the kitchen table too. Whenever my grandpa would grunt like this, which was quite often, we would write something like grampy said 'grrmph. hurmhurm grum.' Which is basically what it sounds like. It's very difficult not to laugh.
So when my grandma copied him and then giggled her Grammy laugh, I snorted out my chocolate milk in surprise. Grammy laughed at this too, then broke into coughs. Grampy then made fun of her pathetic ehe ehe ehe cough, waving his hands mockingly. Seeing my grandparents make fun of each other is funny. It just is.
"You know," Grammy said after the laughing had ceased, "We should give him honey."
"Water. Poisoned water," Grampy said.
"That's just what I'll do. I'll put a drop of honey here, and move the glass a little so that he can get it."
Impulsively, Grampy simply lifted the shotglass off the table, sending the bee rocketing towards me. I jumped and screamed and slid across the tiled floor, yelling, "I'm afraid of bees, you know that!" I didn't go in the kitchen for the rest of the day out of fear.
Besides these episodes during mealtimes - which occured under my terms - most of my time spent there was boring. I sat in Uncle Peter's room (which isn't actually his room anymore, being that he moved out many many years ago and now lives in Florida) all day long. That room with bright blue walls and a weird green blanket on one of my old mattresses, and four pillows that leave your hair full of feathers in the morning. All this is covered by a white raggedy blanket full of holes, most of them from Manda. Recently, she pulled out little threads of this blanket, making curly white strands, about which she sang "Wormies wormies wormies that come from my butt cause I have SARS." She's really convinced she has SARS.
I spent the five days doing math homework, writing, and reading. I finished off Still Waters by Jennifer Lauck, which actually inspired me to write this entry in the first place. Finishing books is rewarding, but depressing too, because I spent $14 on that thing and I finished it within five days. Fortunately, I brought along Wurtzel's Prozac Nation, and polished that off this morning. (For those of you who give a shit, it's not all it's hyped up to be. Too many statistics, too many crying episodes, too much i'm so depressed i can't get out of bed mommy, rafe, save me, no one believes me when it's just like GIVE IT UP elizabeth, Rafe doesn't care. and. yeah.) I spent these past few days just reading like the government was going to burn all the books in the world. Or something.
I read and ate and slept, and when I woke up I did it all over again. (PS. I had a lot of dreams during my time there. Most of them were inappropriately romantic things involving a certain rockstar over whom I obsess. You don't need to know what happened.)
Easter was a big let down, but I'm used to it, I guess. Not only did my parents give up on the tradition of candy and little gifts, but even my grammy did. No more one pound solid chocolate rabbits. I went to Church with my aunt and cousin (Amanda was so sick from SARS that she couldn't even go to Easter mass. Poor thing.) All through the mass I sat in that plastic chair, in that Church room with the unbelievably white floors, watching that priest who knows sign language interpret the sermon to the couple of people in the front row, and thought "Why the fuck aren't my parents here?" I don't care about little candies, or the fact that the easter bunny was replaced by a banker this year, handing me $5 the day before Easter. It's just the feeling of being alone on a holiday. Being dropped off in Swansea with your grandparents and your cousin with her perfect family, while yours is off in Las Vegas. It's just the feeling of being abandoned in this place where you do not belong at all, even if it is your family. I don't belong with these perfect people. I belong in my own Church, making fun of my own town and my own priest with my own parents, not someone else's.
And after reading Still Waters where this poor girl gets dropped off at her grandparents' home, then is moved into her aunt's home, never quite belonging to these people, I panicked. I was left at my grandparents' home, with their comfortable everyday routine of lounging and farming. I was being forced to spend time with my aunt and uncle and cousins, even though I could tell they really didn't want me there. I was little Jenny Lauck, being passed around the family without her parents. (Actually, her parents were dead in the book. Mine were just in Vegas. But play along, I was having a panic attack.) So I started to cry in Church, and I ripped the skin off my thumb out of anxiety. Where are my parents? What are they doing right now? Are they coming back for me? Have I just been abandoned, destined to live in Swansea Mass for the rest of my life?
Of course, that's all quite ridiculous. And for the record, they didn't abandon me. But understand, I was feeling way too familiar with this situation, because I had read about it just the night before.
And today, I was all pumped and ready to go. My bags were packed early into the day, and I just watched the clock. Three more hours. One more hour. Soon I'll be home. They will come.
But as I lay on the couch watching the news, looking at the window in hope, the phone rings. My mom says they'll be late, won't be here until quarter of 8. (that rhymed) Grammy pulls up her rocking chair like she does every night, saying, "I doubt they'll actually be here by then. They'll be much later." And I'm just thinking shut up shut up they'll be here because they said they would. They said they would, they'll be here.
For the next half hour we watch Everyone Loves Raymond, where she points out everything. When Raymond puts his hand up so that he doesn't have to look at his mother, she giggles and says, "Because he doesn't want her to see him." I want to yell I KNOW I GET THE JOKE but I love my grammy, so I wouldn't do that. I love her, but I just really want to go home.
My parents arrive on time, if not earlier, and I pretend like I'm reluctant to see them, like "Oh you're back? Ok, whatever, I'm watching Everybody Loves Raymond, get out of the way." They tell long stories of lost luggage and mean airplane folk and then we're on our way home. And I just think, if things had only gone this way for Jennifer Lauck, that book wouldn't have been $14. It would have ended quicker, happier, and probably ten dollars shorter.
- Molly{11:58 pm}
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