The Return. Day 1.
Below is a post about my parents, who I’m staying with for a couple of days upon my return to Atlanta. I have a rather obnoxious and tricky relationship with them. It’s one of those “you can choose your friends but not your family” type things.
1. They quickly fell into the unfortunate category of people who, when told of my plans, kept asking “why the fuck are you going to Italy, get a job” and then wouldn’t shut up about what was going to happen to my fucking condo. I mean seriously every five minutes on every phone call. They come from a different generation obviously, and had no concept of choosing something else other than a well-paying job, even if you hated it. (They eventually came around when it was clear I had no intention of backing out of the trip, and actually ‘raised my voice’ at them about it. They even “helped” me pack up the condo. By “helped,” I mean my mom kept taking things I was trying to get rid of out of the trash and packing them when I wasn’t looking because “I might need them later.” Um, no, I will not be needing my (broken) coffee maker ever again.)
2. They also have no concept of pesto sauce. Like, my mom asked what it was today. My mom also only opened the olive oil I gave them before I left because she saw it on Dr. Oz’s show, even though I had told them all about its health benefits before.
3. They (amongst others) expected me to be fat upon my return. I’m not (Thanks Bryan!). As in, they actually expressed surprise, three times. I tried to explain portion sizes, self-control, walking everywhere, etc….but then just gave up and told them I couldn’t afford to eat and starved myself. (I of course left out the parts about having a lot of sex, and the massive amounts of Italian peer pressure to be thin.) I was then promptly served a delicious and healthy dinner of Stouffer’s mashed potato and cheese casserole (what do you mean you don’t want thirds?), half a loaf of buttered bread, and cake for dessert. And then was offered cheese and crackers later as a snack. And then chocolate an hour after that. Granted, these are people who think a pop-tarts are breakfast, and were shocked that the Nutrisystem food they bought tasted disgusting (even after I told them it was, and to not waste money on it).
4. They demanded to see all my pictures. They asked all kinds of questions…but quickly skipped over every picture that had a boy in it. Including those from Genova, when I was clearly there with Michele. Even the picture of the Abercrombie & Fitch model. This of course is an outward symptom of their “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” philosophy regarding my gayness, in which not a word has been breathed about it ever since I told them nearly ten years ago. I mean, I know I’ve stated on multiple occasions that I’m a confirmed bachelor, but you could at least ask about the guy I was photographing in front of several buildings…
5. Um, the last thing I want to talk about on the car ride home from a 24 hour ordeal of international plane travel is how much my sister is enjoying surfing in New Zealand and how soon my brother’s child will be walking. This is before even asking how my flight was.
6. My father watches the news. Incessantly and obsessively. He would email constantly, expressing concern about the weather reports he was reading from Italy. The only reason he learned internet navigation is because he wanted to read even more news when there wasn’t enough on TV. Anyone who knows me, knows I never watch the news. News is always bad. Why do I want to hear about murders, and sinkholes, and an 82 year old lady hitting a child getting off the schoolbus? How is this enhancing my life in any possible way? It’s not a life lesson. I know not to pass buses. Can we please not talk about it for an hour? Can we please not relate everything to the stupidity of Sarah Palin?
7. If I have to watch “A Christmas Story” (with running commentary, see below) one more time, I accept no responsibility for what may happen to certain executives at TBS.
There are signs of improvement however. I was only subject to one creepy comment by my father about the thickness of the thighs of one of the girls on So You Think You Can Dance. Um, no Dad, I can’t commiserate on that one, sorry. Also, he only commented on whatever was on the TV every ten seconds, instead of every five seconds. I’ll take even that modicum of silence. My mom only expressed concern about my future and how I was going to survive once. And, usually I can only stand to be around them for a couple of hours before I begin calculating escape plans (see traveling by plane from the prior post). However, going to my happy calm place seems to be working, as I haven’t had that feeling… yet…but that may just be thanks to Nyquil…
Tomorrow, I start back at my slave-to-the-masses restaraunt job, because momma needs some serious cash. This should be interesting. We’ll see how long my happy place holds up to that bitch complaining that her “Spicy Thai Soup” is too spicy….
Next Tuesday, I already have a ‘date’ with a boy here in Atlanta. What? Did you think I was going to revert back to my old ways? I don’t think so! I’m just going to blatantly discriminate and focus on European-Americans for awhile.
After all, I have a blog to write….
P.S. I would like to thank the baby jesus for: queen sized beds, feather bed toppers, fabric softener, my Hyundai, the 8 people I talked to today, and peppermint mochas, all of which have made my transition back to America infinitely easier.