Turtle Haze

”Why do you always get sick on your vacation days? You should do something fun--” began my Sicilian Sophia Petrillo-esque mother with a mix of genuine concern and impending nagging, finishing the thought with, “--like clean your room.”

I hope this isn't the flu. Every joint hurts, and I had a headache most of the day which had me in a pretty slow-moving daze. First I was sick, then my parents, and now I seem to be sick again. The same thing happened in a vicious cycle last year for about a month, and I totally blame the hacking monstrosity mixing and matching antibiotics in the next cubicle. I guarantee I'll feel better when I go to work on Monday, and have another relapse by the end of the week. That sounds harsh, but I went through the same ordeal last year at this time. Argh.

I did a lot of drinking today, water that is. And rest. At one point I sneezed and a glob of mucous flecked with blood flew out. That's disgusting. I can't put that in my blog. Eh, that's what editing is for. I'll write the rest of this, and I'm sure my head is clear enough now that I'll remember to go back and omit this entire paragraph.

Something very exciting happened today. More on that tomorrow.

ABC news had a pretty lengthy report on blogging today. Apparently I've jumped on the bandwagon at the height of its popularity and presence in the collective awareness. Did you know bloggers are helping with the Tsunami aftermath? Or that bloggers were under consideration to be Time's people of the year? Or that blogging can get you fired for posting “risque” pictures of yourself at your workplace? I wouldn't post photos of myself online at work or anywhere else, considering the potential consequences. I like my anonymity, and I like my job.

My parents were paying a visit to my dad's sister in a home today. They rarely have the opportunity to visit and holidays are generally spent with my mom's side of the family; we stopped exchanging gifts with my dad's side years ago. I could tell my dad really wanted to see her though, and my mom had gotten her a sweatshirt for Christmas. If my head wasn't heavier than normal and my thighs didn't feel like they were breaking with each step I took, I might have joined them. My mom generally can only take my dad's sisters in small doses, especially this one. I heard a story the other day of when they were first married, and the first time my dad's sisters were visiting. They were stunned to see my dad helping out with the dishes and freaked out, shoving him out of the kitchen and shrilly scolding him for doing “a woman's job.” If it was Everybody Loves Raymond, then this tale sounds like my mom was Deborah facing off against four Maries My mom used to work in a phone company with the Aunt they visited today, and when one of her friends(later my godmother) was fixing her up with my dad, she assured her that he was nothing like his sister.

So there was some definite tension in the house today. My dad wanted to go early, but my mom had “projects” to do. She's been varnishing our kitchen cabinets, and doing so this morning bought her some time. Meanwhile, against her advice he called his sister early to let her know they would be coming. He should know better by now. Even though he told her 3PM, she impatiently called within 20 minutes of his initial phone call at noon. She was also placing “orders” which was annoying my mom. She requested pizza which my dad agreed to as a treat for her, but my mom pointed out when his sisters “treat” their overweight sibling, my dad yells at them. The more Italians yell at each other, the more they care. I don't understand it, but we all care a LOT about each other apparently. I've heard him tell her things on the phone like, “Why'd you eat that? That's why you're FAT!” but I think he saw the season as an exception, and genuinely believed if they brought her food she wouldn't go on to have a second dinner later that evening in the home. His naiveté was optimism, borne from the right place in his heart, but likely naiveté all the same. I'm sure she ate more after they left.

When he called again at 2:30, she changed her order and instead asked for a chicken cutlet hero instead. My dad agreed, but my mom got really annoyed by her behavior. At this point in time I was lying in bed feeling like there were wooden stakes through every muscle, but when I heard the yelling and the door slam I staggered out to mediate.

My dad was sitting in the car, having told my mom in a huff, “Fine! I'll go by myself then.” My mom was leaning on a chair exasperated, and told me she envied me for getting to stay home. I was the voice of reason and pointed out that though my Aunt was acting like a child and treating them like room service, and that what she was asking for wasn't healthy, she should still go and be there for my dad. It was clearly important to him. He came back in at this point and my mom caved and joined him.

Hours later, I awoke as they were returning. My dad's face beamed as he told me how his sister's face lit up at the sight of the hero, and how she devoured it. He was really happy to have brightened her day in that lonely place, though by the expression on my mom's face I could tell that the sight of my aunt devouring a large, messy sandwich and not offering to share was a piggish spectacle to behold. Still, I think she did the right thing by going, even if the sweatshirt my mom got my Aunt was too small and she must now find another gift.

If yelling is one way Italians show love, food is definitely another. Growing up with four sisters in the 30s, I know my dad and his siblings worried about food, even though my grandfather ran a convenience store and they often “ate the profits.” My dad's not overweight because he's always done constant physical labor, but he eats several meals a day of varying sizes. Breakfast at 5:30. A sandwich or an egg around 8. A snack of plain low-fat unsalted pretzels around noon. Another sandwich at 3. Dinner at 7:30, although he often complains we should eat at 4 “like normal people”. And finally a snack of dried cereal during primetime, before going to bed at 9:30. He's been known to heap massive amounts of spaghetti on my plate, leaving barely any room for sauce, and then yell at me for adding butter because it “will put weight on.” He's told me, “Take seconds; finish this up!” within minutes of suggesting I “should do sit-ups or something.”

A wise online associate once shared this pearl of wisdom with me: “Irony is not a construction material.” In my family though, it's definitely part of the foundation.