Fam-Jam

Spending time with my family is always an eventful occasion. As I now live apart from them, getting us all together at one time is unusual, but also quite comfortable. When I refer to these moments, I am not talking about extended family, ie. aunts, uncles, cousins; I am talking about the core unit that up until this past year and a half I spent my entire life around. So yeah, this would be the mom: Jane, the sista: J-Hawk, and that bald man: John. Although I still live in the same city as all of these people, seeing them seems to be rather infrequent, but when I do see them it is never a disappointment. As all families are different: the way they interact, and the way they treat each other, I believe that each unit can use a metaphor or simile, a literary function, to help others understand what their family lives are like.

Seeing my family is like finding an old shirt in the dumpster in the ally behind my house. I could have sworn I threw it out years ago once I had outgrown it, but no, here it is, still in the dumpster. Despite it's unfashionable condition I decide to try it on for old times sake. It fits very tightly and reeks a bit of shit, but I endure it because I used to love this shirt. After strutting around the ally in it for about fifteen minutes, large tears have opened up in the sides and it is a lot more breathable, finally agreeing with my matured anatomy. I think to myself: "Hey, this really isn't as bad as I remember, why did I ever give up on this shirt? I love you...shirt." Ten minutes later I've developed a rash; I'm pretty sure there was rat feces in the collar, and I'm beginning to swell. Suddenly, I'm suffocating and can hardly think clearly. With my last ounce of strength I rip off the shirt and throw it in the fire; I collapse unconscious in a bathtub full of ice cubes.

Now, although this may seem like an exaggeration, I assure you, it's not. No one gets along with their family 100% percent of the time and obviously I am no different. I love my parents...yeah, that sounds about right, and despite my palpable lack of association with them, I still like to consider them my own. Their mine, God damn it, mine.

This past Friday was my mother's 56th birthday, and while she may not indulge this bitty of information to others, I have no problem telling the world of her prolonged life. What do I care? I'm not even twenty yet; fuck yeah to youth. Anyways, as any family might arrange, we went out to dinner on the following night. The Sandbar was the desired location; situated on Granville Island directly under the Granville Street Bridge; it is quite a nice play to eat. We planned to meet up around 7:15; I was fashionably late, no doubt. As I sat down I was greeted with warm smiles and a drink order. Yes, finally, about time, fucking Christ. I order a Caesar, of course (On a side note I'd like to mention that anyone who doesn't like a good Caesar is a fool.), and quickly polish it off; I order another. Fortunately, the catch-up game is brief; the members of my family know enough about each other to assume what everyone's been up to. Dad: retirement = cabin reservations, sports, coaching, who gives a fuck? J-Hawk: high school, sports, being a dumb 17 year old girl. Mom: work, dog walking....stuff. And then me: personally, I don't think my parents want to know 50% of the stuff I do: procrastinating, binge drinking, drug abuse, unprotected sex, beastiality, etc. I let them know anyway. Laughs all round.

Now I don't have a problem with a little inner-family abuse, in fact, most times it can become quite funny. Someone poking fun at the way someone looks or the way someone talks instantly becomes a family classic that we can all look back on with no hard feelings. Most notably was the time where we all insisted that my sister sported a most fashionable mustache. Which in turn led to the mockery of my inability to grow facial hair. Which in turn led to the inability of my father to grow normal hair. Which in turn led to the physical abuse of my mother later that night. A haha; that be family classic material.

So we're at dinner discussing one thing or another, and soon the conversation turns to my sister's new crazy fantasy that she wants to pick up ATV-ing and dirt biking. Because of the shear ridiculousness of the conversation I refused to take it seriously, but to my surprise my parents were not completely against the idea. Something about building character, I don't fucking know, I was on my fourth Caesar and was really starting to get a buzz going. The only real concern they had was safety. Apparently falling off one of these moving motor vehicles is quite dangerous to ones own health, who would have known? So my parents start laying down some ground rules; stuff about speed, terrain, visibilty, what time of day it is, etc. But their biggest point was to wear a helmet. Although the idea of survival when one falls off an ATV is almost juvenile, they could not stress the helmet enough. My Dad goes: "Helmets save lives; it can be the deciding factor on whether you live, or you die." My sister nods her head; she's got one of those "I obviously get it, I don't want to fucking die" looks on her face; I laugh into my drink. My Dad contines: "Riding a bike with no helmet is one thing, riding a motorcycle without one is just asking for trouble. Your toying with death." My sister's head completes the motions: up and down, up and down. Finally, my dad concludes: "You fall off one of those things you could paralyze your self for life, maybe die! Or for all we know, even worse! You want to end up like your brother?" I inhale an icecube. There are no smiles on either of my parents faces; are they fucking with me, or what?

Like I said earlier, I'm keen on a good laugh; a sense of humour is definately what brings my family closer together. But if theres one thing I don't like, it's to be fucked with, especially by my parents. I get the feeling that everytime I see them they've been conspiring to fuck with me the whole period in which I haven't seen them. I'm beginning to understand the long drawn out durations in which I spend away from them. Oh well, an eventful dinner as usual; at least they're giving me something to write about.