Too Much Family Time
I left the sunny warmth of the South Bay, drove into a fog bank, sat in traffic on 101, and circled for parking, but man am I glad to be back in SF.
Every year, my pious and kookie grandmother introduces us to fresh ramblings and petty grabs for attention. This Christmas, at 94, she wouldn't stop talking about sex. The two detectives on her favorite TV show (Bones) are "f-ing"; the priest gives her an extra-long hug after Mass; the host of the widow-widowers ball has eyes only for her (according to her); she's endlessly curious about family members' sex lives; and she wants to know when my brother and I are finally going to impregenate some nice Catholic girl so she can die a great-grandmother.
"Nice Catholic girl" of course means white, thin, pretty, domestically inclined, and attends Mass every week, no matter what.
Putting up with that would be enough, but I went to something like six Christmas dinners this year. It was too much time in the suburbs. Too much time sitting, eating, and driving to new places to sit and eat. I love my family, I enoyed seeing all of them, but now I feel like I need a real vacation.
