memorial day

I wonder if I'll ever stop being surprised: Surprised that, no, I cannot just keep living my life the same way, no matter how productive I am, if no one is paying me. That, yes, the boy from when I was seven and the boy from when I was twenty-seven and my sorority great-grand little sister (or something) all got married in the same weekend. That the people I was surprised to see get facebook-divorced are engaged again. Surprised that my friends were trying to talk us into what was not necessarily a scheme but was, undoubtedly, a pyramid. That I can stay calm enough to actually be helpful when my baby brother calls from the Caribbean to tell me he is throwing up blood and on the way to the hospital (and that my credit limit might have actually been helpful, if it had come to that). Surprised to find out in a single day that two of my friends-- real friends, college friends-- are having babies soon (one on purpose, and both very excited).

I wonder when I'll stop being surprised to be a grownup.

We took off. We escaped to the beach with a swimsuit under my clothes and a tent and a cooler and sunscreen and all the things to make s'mores. We were going to camp, though it wouldn't really have been roughing it to sleep in the back yard of a house we had all to ourselves and I'm not sure it counts as camping when you've got a kitchen and two bathrooms and a washer and dryer and a television and a piano. But I got a cold, and we slept inside and that was fine, too. It was good to get away for a few days.

~b

sibling bonds

While we were on vacation, my baby brother and I found some time alone to catch up on those things not meant to be heard or known by parents.

He described a party where he was yelled at by three girls and slapped by two. I can’t remember how many he kissed. And he told me about waking up one morning in a strange apartment. He couldn’t remember the name of the girl next to him, but even worse, he had to use his Blackberry to locate himself using GPS (thank Google for maps!) without waking her. He was two towns over from where he’d started the night before.

“How’d we end up like this?” I asked a mostly rhetorical question.
“I blame mom and dad.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”

I prescribed a sabbatical-- some time with no girls to refocus-- and he said he’d think about it.

And as our laughter waned, I realized I had nothing new to contribute. Aside from meeting a boy though blogs, my own dating drama has slowed dramatically as of late.

“What do you think mom and dad think about Ted? I mean he’s Jewish. . .”
“I think they’re just glad you’re with someone.”


~beatrix

My big fat Italian family

I'm amazed at how many of the people who read this blog are from overseas. I love reading their own blogs and hearing each culture come through their words. (Mr London Street just wrote a charming story about an American friend who began to adopt a distinctly British attitude about expectations.You should check it out-- after you finish reading this, of course.)

The differences between Americans and everyone else (as Americans tend to categorize the world) are numerous. We tend to look at these differences on a psychological level but they go much deeper-- cellular even. If you ask a European about his heritage, he'll likely give you a single answer. If you ask an American, you'll usually hear a long list of places of ancestry. (Another sweeping stereotype for you-- Americans suck at math unless dealing with the many fractions of various nationalities that make up their heritage.)

For example, I am half German, a quarter Polish, and a quarter Italian. I may also be Scottish too depending on how deep you want to look into the questionable background of my great-grandfather. I am a typical American; a living mosaic of the those who emigrated to the states over the last few hundred years in search of a better life.

Except for one thing: Americans like simple as much as they like variety. For all of my cultural diversity, I am usually written off as 100% Italian. Granted, I have dark features and my last name ends in a vowel but I think the categorization goes further than that. Just as in eye and hair color, I believe that there are such things as dominant cultures in our genes. The resulting cultural tendencies are so forceful that they can overwhelm everything else, and try as you may, it is impossible to escape them.

I came to this great revelation during my family vacation in the middle of a day at the beach when my aunt offered me a snack from her beach bag.

"Are you hungry Harper? I made gazpacho."

Gazpacho. My aunt brought soup to the beach. And since you can't have soup alone, she also brought french bread, a variety of cheeses, and olives. To the beach.

One great thing about being Italian-- you'll never go hungry.

-Harper

National Lampoon's family vacation

I had promised tales of debauchery and sin but I got out-debaucherized rather quickly. Plus, I'm about to embark on a family vacation and there's nothing less sexy than forced family fun.

I shouldn't complain. While we've certainly had drama over the years (I mean, who hasn't had their own brother arrested?) my family is for the most part very nice and normal. In a way I wish we were all a bit more nasty-- it's hard for others to grasp the subltety of my family's form of warfare.

Let's take last Christmas, for example. My father's wife Karen (which, any child with a remarried parent will tell you is different from a step-parent) gave me some extra-special gifts.

Karen: Harper, this is for you.

Harper: Karen, thank you- it's the Van Morrison CD I wanted... But, what is this post-it note on it?

Karen: The post-it was to let you know that it's regifted. I already had the CD so I thought I'd give it to you. Open this one next!

Harper: Oh look, it's a book with another post-it reading "This has been regifted."

Karen: The cover may be a litte warped because I read it in the bathtub.

I admit that from time to time we take some creative license with this blog. I wish I could say that I had invented this scene, mostly because I wish I had never held a book that my father's wife had perused while soaking in the bathtub. But it's all true, down to the post-it notes.

Wish me luck during my family vacation. Anyone out there have equally horrifying family tales they'd like to share?

-Harper