The Perfect Storm

All week long I told people, “Yep, I’m driving alone to Illinois on Friday.”  I was ready to jump in the car & begin the trek.  My husband had taken a four-day weekend to stay home with our daughter. 

It never happened.  I skipped my 30-year reunion for several reasons.

The first jarring moment of concern occurred when I opened an e-mail that contained an old picture of eleven of the girls in our class all together, smiling like happy idiots.  It freaked me out. 

I’d completely forgotten how they ran in packs.  There were dozens of shiny teeth belonging to the perfectly virginal bitches I had to spend my days with all those years ago.  In my warped mind, they woke up to plates full of rice krispie treats & an adoring mother singing “You Are So Beautiful.”

Which of course reminded me that my own mother wore only her granny panties & last night’s smeared mascara on her cheeks, as she screamed “Hurry up & get yer ass to school!”, her massive nipples pointing to the floor.  She sat in the living room chair eating ice cream, watching Jeopardy, with the eyes of a psycho & the tongue of a rattlesnake.

As a result of that picture, emotional & psychological dry heaves immediately commenced.  It hit me that I was maybe more of an outsider than I even realized.

But I was still planning to go to the reunion!

After all, my brother Jim’s girlfriend had called to say that four of my siblings were coming, two of whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years.  I was very excited by the idea of a misfit posse, all trained by the same maniac.  Perhaps we would finally bond as a unit, like that family in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

Instead of facing the pack solo, I’d have major dysfunctional back-up:

My brother alone could create chaos using the incredible waves of gas created by his gastric bypass operation. 

My sister’s Charles Manson look-alike boyfriend would frighten any thinking person. 

My suave brother, Scott, if given half a chance, would fuck all my prior classmates senseless as their husbands watched. 

Best of all, if we could get my hot sister Shannon (who had a boob job during her stripper years) to do a pole dance, we’d totally gain popularity points as a family.

Definitely going!  Woohoo!

Two days later, another call.  The girlfriend had given me bad information.  The siblings were definitely not coming.  WTF?

As a balm for my disappointment, Jim wanted me to call our mother.  If I was coming, she planned to drive the six hours necessary & be there, too.  Incredibly, the tone of his voice suggested this was a perfectly reasonable exchange. 

He might as well have said, “We plan to roast your left tit on a spit.” 

I didn’t call my mother.

I still planned to attend.  I absolutely did not want the reunion organizer to think I was a complete ass-wipe after my obsessive re-writes of ”High School Memories.” 

I did however begin to ruminate on the fact that my sister didn’t even bother returning my call about all this.  So much for those poems, pictures, cards & letters I sent her daughter in rehab.

I know she’s busy.  Scott called and told me they’re using a salvaged trailer from an 18-wheeler to build a front porch on the front of her new home, covering it with indoor/outdoor carpet & plywood.  I hear Martha Stewart will be visiting soon with tips on plastic flower beds & beer can chimes.  (Well, there you have it, the reason my sister doesn’t call.)

I also had some relatively compulsive & obsessive thoughts over my brother’s lack of love & hospitality, as evidenced by this statement:

“Give us a call when you get to wherever you’re staying.” 

Not that I wanted to stay in his porno-infested basement or dusty living room, be humped by his frantic hyper dogs or overwhelmed by his magnificent state-of-the-art electronics (which remind me only of the loan he will never re-pay).  However, the offer would have been nice.

The real issue, of course, is what kind of asshole am I to expect different?

I decided I should add up my expenses:

* 28 hours driving time

* $300 gas

* $300 minimally for potentially bed-bug ridden hotel rooms

* $200 in miscellaneous expenses (food & gifts)

* Totaling:$800 plus for the one day visit. 

Yikes.

Beginning to ponder the trip.  Why am I doing this?

Next, I talked to my brother Scott, who had a freaky dream that he went to the reunion, sat on a bench & no one spoke to him all night.  He’s definitely not going.  Sounds like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder to my imaginary Ph.D. level brain.

Scott asked if I was still going and I said, “I’m thinking about it.”  Uh-oh.

And then Thursday morning the phone rang & I was notified that “the other Bobby” from my son’s K-8 school class had just died.  Yes, this is the kid who in a single year spit in my boy’s face, peed on his leg & took food from his lunchbox.  I screamed at his mom & we all got over it.  He’s part of our family lore.  He was funny & smart & mischievous & charismatic & great looking.

His mother & I had an identical trait, which sometimes conflicted: We both believed our sons were the best to ever grace the planet & adored them with appropriate royal deference.  Two perfect princes.  Now hers was gone on the same day my son’s college graduation picture & placque arrived in the mail. 

This world can be so fucking bizarre.

My priorities & perspective both immediately experienced proper re-alignment.  The death of a beautiful 22-year old trumps all stupidity in the lives of us left here to whine & bitch.  His parents’ agony really made my concerns about bald old classmates noticing my muffin top seem a bit self-involved.

I refused to make a decision about the trip at that point, as I was supposed to leave the next morning but couldn’t think straight  . . .

Add it all together & I was still sitting at my computer last Friday afternoon, nearly 7 hours after I was supposed to be on the road.  My husband was asking for the 24th time, “Are you going?”  (He really can’t bear my lackadaisical attitude toward preparation & planning, whereas I would have no problem jumping in the car & buying clothes along the way.)

So in the end it came down to 1.) A four-day weekend with the husband & daughter who adore me, or 2.) A long & expensive trip to spend four hours sitting in a hot park with relative strangers.  An easy decision, after all.

I sent an apologetic e-mail.  I’d barely hit ”Send” when my friend, Aimee, called & asked “What’s up with the reunion?”  I quite unexpectedly began to cry.

I was hoping to go back & make things right, have a do-over.  I wanted to fix my childhood, my lack of girlfriends, my slutty history, my fucked up family. 

I wanted to finally fit in, but of course I would not.  I don’t even fit in with my own brother & sister or my mother.  This seems to be a relatively normal state of family affairs here in America. 

Just because my brother, sister & I entered this world through the same leaky vessel does not mean we need to continue to travel on the same ship.

The only intrepid sailors I’m concerned with at this point in my life are these two:

All that matters is that on this day my children are safe & happy. 

Include the fact that my adoring & demented husband ignores all my flaws, like a crazy cat lady who doesn’t notice the smell of reeking urine, & suddenly it’s clear that I saved all my luck for adulthood.

It works.