A little part of my soul just dies

So, today was my nephew's high school graduation party. My eldest brother M and his wife N have been anticipating this event for ages. Now my brother is failing to coming to terms with the "empty nest" syndrome.

Well, as some of you on my dear flist probably know, I am not fond of family events. Particularly, I am not fond of events where I must go to the suburbs, and where I must interact with my mother. Every time I enter the suburbs, a little piece of my soul just dies. No offense to you suburb dwellers who enjoy that sort of thing. I just feel trapped in that environment. If I were just hanging out in someone's living room over a glass of wine and nice conversation or a game of scrabble, it wouldn't be so bad. But the VFW hall, with a DJ playing The Electric Slide too loudly while painfully unfashionable people actually enjoy line dancing to it just sucks the life out of me. Even worse, they had a conga line going as David Johansson (aka Buster Poindexter) sang Hot! Hot! Hot! and there was not a single recognition of the irony in it at all. Where is John Waters when you need him?

I swear to merlin, if I ever have a wedding or other sort of event-in-a-hall-with-a-DJ, I will never allow that to happen. :shudder:

So, it's been 19 years since I moved out of my dear mother's house, and still the only thing she sees fit to discuss is my weight. Well I suppose I should be happy. For 15 or so years it was "You're too fat." Now it's "You look like you lost weight." The world is apparently substantially better now that I wear jeans two sizes smaller than I did two years ago. Oh, and I wore a rune neckless which at one point she saw fit to grab out of nowhere and examine quizzically before walking away. Not even a comment or question about it. If there is one thing I am very particular about, it's my personal space. I really really really dislike about 85% of people touching me out of nowhere. And it's especially true for people who I don't like. I think my personal space zone is more sensitive than others. But really, is it normal for a person to just dive in and examine someone's jewelry without comment or conversation?

At least I had a few really nice moments today. One was an impromptu visit I made to a friend of mine who seems to know the art of touch and personal space as he always puts me at ease. Before hopping in a cab (I was planning on taking the bus along that road but time was fleeting) we had a little heart-to-heart for a little bit. Wish it could have been longer, or more private and intimate, or both. But alas, Westchester called...

The next was walking with my younger nephew (of my other brother R) around the VFW. He liked the flowers and trees and leaves out the windows. And we found a rather large spider web on a windowsill that we contemplated for a few seconds. At five years old, he's really not capable of standing still very long. But I asked him if he thought spiders had a good life and he said he'd rather be a boy.

My sister-in-law N showed a painfully long slideshow of my graduating nephew's life (who would have thought 18 years would take so long?). I whispered to my other sister-in-law S "I bet you five bucks we're not in any of the pictures." and apparently my brother R whispered the same exact words to her, for 5 seconds later she burst out laughing and exclaimed "Your sister just said the same thing!" But in the mix was a picture of me after all, and even better, a couple shots of my now deceased paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather.

I had to laugh later on, as my mother chased both my brothers accusatorally and scolded them with a very bad impersonation of jewish guilt. "Doesn't anyone want to take a picture of me with my grandson on his big day? Don't you want a picture of us together, while I'm still alive." So much more effective and pleasant than a simple "Can you take a picture of us together?" I'm pretty sure nobody did take her picture after that. I should have. Nobody believes me when I tell them she looks like an evil Annette Funicello whose evils have caught up to her face much like in The Picture of Dorian Gray.

But I digress. Just when I'd had enough of R whispering cattily in my ear about M's poor taste in clothes and M whispering in my ear about whatever he felt was wrong with R, it was time for the train to take me home. M gave me a lift to the MetroNorth railway station and he showed me a manuscript he'd written for a comedic book on visiting the doctor. It was pretty mundane stuff, but I applaud all efforts at creativity so I was encouraging. Then the most astonishing thing happened. When I got out of the car, he said to me "I meant to tell you. My daughter N reminds me more and more of you every day. She's very strong willed, smart, determined, and focused."

I almost cried, flist. In 37 years, I think that was the most unequivocably nice thing he's ever said to me in my life. Particularly, considering how strongly affectionate he is toward his children and how condescendingly he's thought fit to treat me in the past before I disabused him of that ersatz privilege. Reflecting on my conversation earlier with my friend, he'd said to me "you know, you can always say no. . . and not go." But I replied that I am willing to endure a certain amount of unpleasantness on an irregular basis to preserve some relationship with my brother. That what you get in return is sometimes worth putting up with the occasional bit of nonsense. This was one of those times.

Happy Sunday, flist. Wish me luck as I dive headfirst into the painting of my flat this week.