I’m packed and ready to go, just waiting for some cds to burn since I don’t have an ipod or an ipod plug for my car, and while I like Scott’s taste in music to a degree, I’m going to need a little bit of Judy Garland and Radiohead to get me through a 10 hour drive.
Today I called Scott at night and asked him what he was bringing. “Chile” he said… (I waited for more, but there wasn’t anything….) Consequently, I’m worried about the food supplies. Scott said that he could live off of carrots and chile all week, but I have a feeling by day three my $20 supply of beef jerkey is going to look pretty amazing and while I know Burning Man is all about “peace, love and sharing” I don’t mess around with my food, especially in the middle of the desert.
Anyhow, I’m looking forward to this trip, despite the raised-eyebrows and looks of skepticism that practically everyone I know has been giving me this past month. We celebrated my mom’s birthday today and my highly Republican Christian cousins just stared at me with this “she’s going to hell” look as I tried explaining Burning Man in PG terms.
Bumping into my stepmom, Dad and brothers at Disneyland tonight while standing in line waiting for the final tram, was probably the most awkward, heart-wrenching moment of my life thus far. I knew they were at the park the whole day; it was one of those weird coincidences: Cynthia and I planned this out about a week prior, and then my brother informed me the night before that they were also going the same day.
I initially thought and prepared to bump into them right away, but as the day went by and as I was keeping track of their location via text messages with David and his friend, Steven, it seemed like we were frequenting opposite ends of the park at the same times and all was safe. So at the end of the night, waiting in a hoard of people during a mass exodus from Disney, I wasn’t prepared to see my family walk up in the same line where the trams pick us up.
‘Awkward’ hardly describes it, though luckily I specialize in acting calm during those moments of extreme tension and terror. I saw my Dad and went in for a hug, said “hi” to Monica and hugged my brothers. After seven minutes of waiting for the tram along with EXTREMELY strained conversation between David, Christian (who now thinks I’m the devil) and Steven, I said goodbye, got on the tram and held back the flood until I got to the the parking lot. Cynthia said, “In my entire life, I have NEVER seen an adult act like your stepmom just did.” (Monica basically ignored both of us, turning her back and whispering with my Dad.
Everyone keeps asking me, “Why don’t you simply apologize to your stepmom so you can see your Dad and brother again?” and I explained to Cynthia that the situation is sort of like the War in Iraq: I can pull out the troops and apologize until I’m hoarse, but bottom line is that there is still a huge fucking mess to clean up which will take lots of time and emotional wear-and-tear. I have the cajones to apologize for nothing, but I don’t have the balls to deal with yet another season of passion aggression, criticisms and disapprovals. Plus, it’s not like my mother’s family, where emotional abuse is sort of like our “grace” before dinner. Once when I was in 3rd grade I came home to find my entire bedroom on the front lawn– signaling that my grandma was pissed at me. We were all fine by the next day. But this isn’t how the Palomares family operates. It’s built around a complex system of passive aggression, grudges, patriarical control, Conservatism, and subtlety. It’s all very classy and mind-fucking. And this is where most of the conflicts have stemmed from. I don’t think either side is particularly “correct,” (being raised by Nana caused its fair share of damage) but since I have adopted more of the bing-batta-boom Ordunio punch, I’m always getting in trouble at the Gavotte.
This whole stalemate between my Dad and me is taking its toll, though I’m realizing that the most painful situations often leave you numb rather than impassioned. It’s only during random moments– driving to Target or editing a headshot– that I start to break down in random bursts of tears and remember that my Dad won’t be calling me in a week for my birthday.
Eggs. I’m so sick of eggs I want to vomit. This “healthy eating plan” (crash diet) I’ve adopted requires you to omit all: starches, fruit, sugars from your diet for the first two weeks, resulting in a vegetable-lean-protein orgy from hell. I’m looking forward to biting in an apple so much that I could pee my pants.
Don’t get me wrong… I LOVE losing weight– it’s one of my passions in life, though I rarely get to practice it since one of my even bigger passions is food. So, I’ll just suck it up and make another fri-ta-ta.
My family is hilariously awful at supporting me during these rare moments of motivation… my grandma is currently baking molasses cookies for example, approximately 6 batches of them. The ironic part is that two weeks ago, when I was at the height of my summer gluttony and Judge Judy marathons, I had asked her to bake some cookies and she said, “Why don’t you get off your ass and jog… you just don’t CARE about yourself anymore.”
Another great part is that suddenly, I’m becoming a financial burden to my family because I toss out 1/2 of my egg yolks and am eating vegetables. I tried making a very poignant analogy between cutting off the fat on a piece of meat to throwing out the fatty part of the egg, but Nana just slammed down the spatula and told me to “buy my own fucking egg yolks to throw away!” That and, “Diet food (vegetables) are so expensive! Why don’t you just not eat?” (My grandma allegedly lost 30lbs in the 70s from dexatrin and “only eating lettuce.”)
So here I am, unveganized, about to eat another serving of Jell-O and trying, unsuccessfully to stay off my family’s shit list. Though, I kind of got myself into a hole last night while defending my eating habits by commenting that both my Nana and Papa have pregnant bellies and could stand to lose a few too.
Is it wrong that I hate you
and your rank morning-breath,
that taught me to seek solace by the window
on raw, morning drives to school?
With forehead pressed, breath
making a mist, I’d clench, knotting
teeth and grinding hands until stiff;
(since it was too early for Enya,
and passive-aggressiveness.)
Because I used to sit on Dad’s lap
and hold on tight in the blue Mustang (a ’65)
while winding down the first freeway
in California, feeling warm and high. And
I was his girl. No need to park in the street
or sit in the back seat while you complain
that he pays too much attention to me.
(I’m not the only one who needs self-esteem.)
And where will you sit, when it’s my turn?
On the side of my groom? No. I’ll make you shake
hands and smile for a change or
just don’t come and let my dad, alone.
What a spectacle you’ve made:
whisking away our brother from the hands of my
“deranged mother;” bringing up the will
and your better life in Brazil; and recall those
family trips, kissing our cheeks with tight lips
before the car pulled out and
we waved from a driveway.
So, I resolve to go and recall
good times through old photos.
Make a point. (Did I really just
delete my dad from Facebook?)
Life is full of consolidations; selling
Mustangs and making a choice between
calling on holidays or calling at all.
It’s been dampened and so I pound my fist
on drywall as you build a new home and buy
silly things to flair your gills and make
life seem superior. And I hope it’s
better for you, as it will be for me,
and someday I’ll bring over my child
and pretend to be okay that he isn’t
in a frame over your mantle.
