When it comes to my family (with the exception of my sister) I tend to take a hands-off approach. I have learned through sad, miserable experience that the more contact I have with them, the more crazy I feel. For instance, if I call my mother just to talk, she will immediately launch into a twenty-five minute tirade about how her life is shit and how everyone wants to keep her down and how her talent is unappreciated (I agree fully. It’s also unmotivated and not fully actualized) and how ungrateful my brother Jonathon is and how broke she is. She never asks how I am and often never really asks why I was calling. After such a call, my head feels like a sack of old pennies. It is as though the crazy is contagious, a toxic sludge that catches on your clothes, clings to your hair like bubblegum. I’ve stepped in with regards to Jonathon when my drunken mama was dropping the ball (with alacrity) or when she needed a ‘loan’ (read: late rent for uterus space occupied), but in general, out of sight, out of mind, where all parties are concerned. But, every now and then, I can no longer control my urge to be co-dependent and walk with full acceptance into the shitstorm.
So, a while ago, she mentioned again how much she loved the Renaissance Faire and how she wanted to go back. And Mo and I had been talking about it and about how we thought Abby would really think it was cool. And then I decided to be magnanimous and tried planning a trip down to the Renaissance Faire and have it be a family thing for my mom.
Fine. I pre-purchased tickets so we wouldn’t have to wait in line and then attempted to borrow Ward and June’s minivan for the occasion. Ward said fine but then later, June (who has her own interesting personality quirks) got weird about my borrowing it for such a long trip (oooh, two and a half hours away!) and then said that they had removed the back row of seats, so it only had four. Instead of, you know, putting the seats back in, she acted as though the mini-van was now permanently a four-person vehicle. Fine. Whatever. Mo piped up immediately and said that the five of us would be fine in the M. In retrospect, I should have secured a rental mini-van for the weekend so we could use it on Sunday, but hindsight and all of that.
On Friday, Mom mentioned that she was talking to Aunt Brunhilda about the weekend and Aunt Brunhilda would be ‘following us down’. Why? Why why why? Why in the name of all that was sane did she want to attend? My brain was screaming like an Edvard Munsch painting, but on the exterior, I simply shrugged and said that Aunt Brunhilda would have to buy her own ticket at the gate. I desperately hoped that she would bow out when she realized that there would be food involved.
Mo and I were then fretting about our departure. We learned on Friday that my drunken mama had been invited to a party at her drunken friend’s house on Saturday night and we felt utter doom. Having lived with this woman and experienced her post-bender mornings (not to mention, afternoons and early evenings) we knew that there would be no rousing her from her catatonia if she were hung over or worse, still intoxicated on Sunday morning. I did a recon to estimate damage control when I stopped over to pick up Jonathon and bring him to the library. I casually mentioned that I’d be picking them up at 7:00 on Sunday morning and then my drunken mama sneered, ‘Yeah, I know. I’m going to miss Barfly’s party because of this!’ Which impressed the hell out of me. But then she added, ‘The two things I get invited to all summer and then they happen on the same weekend!’ Yes, according to my mother, she is but an overlooked wallflower, pining away in her castle, waiting for a prince to come along and invite her to the ball. She still got total points for picking us over the stinky band of rogues at her friend’s party though, so I should try not to be too sarcastic.
Except that it comes so naturally.
I tried to go to bed early on Saturday night, but I couldn’t fall asleep. Finally, I managed to think about art (WTF?) and drift off around midnight, to wake at 5:15, get up and shower, get dressed, call Mom and wake her up (because of COURSE she wasn’t up half an hour before I was to pick them up), pack sandwiches, run to the ATM, and braced myself picked up Mom and Jonathon.
My mother, for all of her carefully manufactured ‘popular girl’ personality, is actually a truly foul creature in the morning. She’s downright mean. If she’s hung over, it’s far worse; even fully sober, she’s simply not a very nice person. Having survived eighteen years of an angry, outburst prone mother, I am hypersensitive to being spoken to in a harsh tone in the morning. I even wake up extra early so that I don’t have to talk to a vertical Esteban, who has a touch of cranky bear syndrome himself. Thus, when I walked into her house and sensed that she was prickly, I countered by being flight attendant cheerful. She immediately launched into a tirade about how Jonathon doesn’t do anything for himself and how it must be nice to have a nice car like I do and how Mo is selfish and how Jonathon’s dad is annoying and how Brunhilda bailed because she thought the Ren Faire would be like a county fair or Six Flags or something (phew) and how her friend orders her around all the time and how no one asks her what she wants to do or does anything for her.
Finally, I herded both of them into the car and started to drive to Mo’s house, chatting away cheerfully. She started immediately complaining. ‘I really wish you had gotten that Minivan.’
‘So do I, Mother. But it will be ok. It’s really a big backseat.’
‘No it won’t be ok. It will suck. I’m going to have to sit in the back. Mo is going to fix it so I’m back there.’
‘Mom, you’re in the front seat right now. You’ve got it. If she wants to switch, just say no.’
‘She’s going to tell me that I’m thinner than she is, so I should go in back.’
‘Tell her that the car is sorted by age and the backseat is the kid’s table.’
By then, we had driven three blocks. She sneered and said, ‘You know, why don’t you just turn around and take me back home.’
I was aghast. ‘I already bought the tickets. I paid for them already.’
She curled her lip ‘I’m sure that you can get your money back.’
‘No, there are no returns.’
‘Then sell it to someone.’
I felt like crying or throwing up. I mean, I couldn’t just kidnap her and take her to the Renaissance Faire. I had been nervous about pre-buying the tickets because I was afraid that someone would pike, but I was also angry, because I had planned this and now by pulling this stunt, she was going to ditch Jonathon for the day and she was the whole reason we were doing this in the first place.
‘I’m not going to stand outside the ticket window, scalping a Ren Faire ticket, Mother. Let’s just go, pick up Mo and Abby, get some coffee and then we’ll talk about it, ok?’
She grunted and didn’t really say anything. We got to Mo’s, where Mom and Mo had a cigarette and then we climbed back into the car. Mom managed to reclaim her saccharin face or perhaps had stopped channeling Zoul, but suddenly her desire to go back home had diminished. Or perhaps she didn’t want to look like a bitch in front of Mo and Abby. Regardless, I zipped through Starbucks, ordered for everyone, including a Strawberries and Cr’me Frappuchino for Jonathon and Abby. I stretched the iPod into the backseat and let Mo and Jonathon play DJ (which was fine with me, since I already like all 1400 songs on the thing). Mo found the Bad Bar section and soon we were all singing away to Build Me Up, Buttercup and Push It, and Mom seemed to forget that she hadn’t thrown her postponed tantrum. Dare I say it, the drive down was enjoyable. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood and happy and laughing. Behold, the power of a lot of sugar and caffeine.
Also, in a disturbing note, I learned that Mo and I both know all the words to Baby Got Back.
The Faire was, well, a Renaissance Faire, filled with D&D geeks and weird goth amalgamations and many many people without social lives who spend all of their clothing budget on armor. Oh, and also some very hot men wearing tights. Hot because despite the past month and a half of abnormally cold weather, July put its best face and made it swelteringly hot and humid.
The kids seemed to be having a lot of fun. Abby was very excited by the sword fights and the queen and the jousting. Jonathon got a henna tattoo, which was quite exciting. Abby was “knighted” by the Queen and given a paper that she is now Lady Abby, and then she got mad at Mo when Mo wouldn’t keep calling her “milady”. I was serenaded by a strolling minstrel who sang a song about the color of my eyes, for which my mother was marginally able to restrain her envy and tried to minstrel-block. Whenever we’d pass one of the four million beer stands, my mother would announce ‘Oh, that’s the place that has my ale!’ and sashay into the line (as though she MUST take this opportunity to get some, for it may be many feet or even possibly yards before we pass another beer and ale stand).
(this is where I will insert some pictures of us frolicking amidst the Ren Faire and the Ren Freakes)
Mo and I were quite titillated by one guy’s spot on depiction of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow, complete with the stagger and the cocksure head tilt and the gold tooth. My mother, however, insisted on flirting with him, which allowed Mo and I both to channel our thirteen-year-old selves and roll our eyes at each other (completely with ‘Gawd, Motheeeerrrrr!’) My mother, naturally, insisted on taking a picture with Captain Jack, thrusting her chest out like she were posing for an album cover (actually, I wanted to make a different simile there, but my brain freezes when I attempt to combine the concepts of ‘Centerfold spread’ and ‘My Mother&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- ungh’ what? Um’Candy?) Thus, I spent the rest of my day sort of stalking Captain Jack. And I’d squeal when I’d spot him again. ‘There’s Captain Jack!’ Actually, I kept saying ‘Cap’n Jack’ in such a way that you could actually hear the apostrophe pant in abject desire. The restraining order is sure to arrive any day.
Also, because these moments are getting more and more rare, I must mention that I got carded when buying my own hard cider. I think it was the fact that I was wearing pigtails (crooked ones at that. Damn Mo! I thought they taught you to make a straight part at Mommy school!) and also the illusive glow of perspiration was diffusing the harsh light of day, much like Vaseline on a camera lens. I ended up only having the one cider because combined with the oppressive heat, the alcohol made me feel sluggish and as though I wanted to curl up and go to sleep.
In the lap of a tasty pirate.
(this is where I will insert the picture of Cap’n Jack lounging very pirate-like in the grass like a sex on a platter)
However, about twenty miles south of town, everyone in the backseat woke up and then it all sort of got tense. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but by the time we were on the off ramp into town, my mother was sniping at Jonathon, he was whining, and Mo was wondering why we weren’t dropping them off first. Once we dropped Mom and Jonathon off, Mo expressed irritation at Mom and then at everything and I wondered if she weren’t also mad at me and just not saying anything so I wouldn’t make her walk home. And then I dropped them off and drove to my house, feeling as though everyone was mad at me for some reason, and recycling some of the comments my mother had made throughout the day and wondering if she was mad because I paid for stuff and tried to pay for other stuff and did she feel like I was posturing or showing off or something? I’m so clueless, sometimes. I am very much someone who says what they mean and also give people the benefit of the doubt, even when they say something that is incredibly offensive. I don’t know if it’s from my childhood or if I’m just naturally a peacemaker or what the deal is, but it takes a very long time for my ire to be raised, and I tend to assume other people are this way as well. However, I know that this is not the case. As a result, sometimes I just end up feeling guilty, even though I’m not sure exactly what I, or anyone, did wrong. So then I was kind of depressed and absolutely exhausted and sort of wishing that I had never even organized the whole thing. But maybe everyone was just cranky and stiff from walking and being in the intense heat and then sitting for so long. That’s what I’m hoping anyway.
So then stripped all my clothes, jumped into the shower to remove Ye Olde Sweate and Gryme, and then crawled into bed where I fell immediately into a colorful and action-filled multi-plotted dream involving lusty pirates and ripped chemises. Which is always a lovely thing.
(this is where I will insert the picture of Cap’n Jack sweeping me into his arms and leering purposefully at the hint of my cleavage, his rakish hat perched upon my crooked pigtails as I wink into the camera)
(or, you know, I would if such a picture existed)
