It occurs to me that, while I've whined about them in bits and fragments of journal-keeping, I have yet to really explain the dynamics of my family. I'll attempt to do so right now for the benefit of the audience.
First, however, let me state that no, I don't think my family's that bad. I know I seem like I have very little perspective when I talk about my family's annoying little oddities. I realize that they're pretty tame compared to some families. Still, it's my journal, and they bug me, so I'll whine about them if I like.
Dad: My dad is 41 years old, ruddy-complected, ridiculously charming, and over-educated. He has a dirty sense of humor, in that kind of South Park way. An English major and history minor, he's a reporter for the town newspaper, specializing in sports stories. He also has a teaching degree and received a full ride to law school, only to drop out after the first year. My father is not the stereotypical Midwestern, beer-drinking NASCAR dad. He's about as far from that as humanly possible.
Dad was born in Arkansas and has retained a slight Southern drawl for his entire life, despite having lived there only six months. The twang is inherited from his mother and is only noticeable on words like "bomb" (which he pronounces "baum"). He was raised in Nebraska. My grandfather, a military pilot, was killed five months before my dad was born. Consequently, Dad was raised by a single mother until she remarried when he was 14.
To be blunt, Dad frustrates me. My friends think I have the best dad ever because I never get in trouble and he's a fascinating conversationalist. Not quite. He's incredibly demanding; if I ever came home with a report card with a B on it, I'm pretty sure he'd kill me. He's also very controlling; he considers my friendships to be his business. I don't get in trouble because I constantly toe the line. He expects a lot of me, and I do my best to deliver.
Mom: My mother is tall, pale, quiet, and efficient. She's a nurse and does not tolerate messes. Obviously, she refuses to step into my room. Mom met Dad at a party in college. It was "love at first sight" blah blah blah. I think Dad kind of controls my mother's habits; I've heard that my mother was a bit of a party animal until she met him, at which point she sobered up quick.
Mom was raised in Iowa. Her mother was a nurse, and her father was a judge. To paraphrase Jane's Addiction, my grandmother treats Grandpa like a ragdoll. My grandfather is an incomprehensibly wonderful man; I swear, he's running for sainthood. Mom is the youngest of six children. I didn't find out until last year that her oldest sister is actually her half-sister. The big skeleton in the closet is that Grandma had a baby (my aunt) out of wedlock in 1951. Mom takes that kind of thing really personally, and she refuses to talk about it.
My mother is an expert at playing dumb. She always acts stupider (I had to check to see if that was a word) than she is. She's convinced I hate her, which I don't; I just hate her idea that acting like a moron makes her likeable. That came out harsher than I intended it to, but I don't feel like changing it now. Anyway, Mom is also an extremely private person. She refuses to tell me about anything that happened to her in high school. My mother and I don't talk much.
Brother: My brother is 14 years old and highly annoying. He was born with cerebral palsy and was not expected to function normally. He does, mostly. He's a grade behind where he should be (he's a seventh-grader) and has poor fine motor skills, but other than that, he's fine.
He's a B and C student, but really only because he's lazy. He's a video game addict. He's also a baseball fanatic. We don't talk much.
That's my family. Tonight they decided that we should go out for a Valentine's dinner and forced me to come with them. My brother complained about his malfunctioning PlayStation2. Dad told the college kid in the booth behind us that he smelled like pot. Mom kept rocking back and forth in her chair like an autistic kid. My brother played the food Nazi and kept harassing me to finish my French fries. Dad started giving me advice on what not to do if I ever get breast implants (yeah, like that'll happen). The guidelines included things like size and spacing; in short, things no teenage girl ever wants to hear her dad talk about. Mom made fart jokes.
They wonder why I don't like spending time with them.
First, however, let me state that no, I don't think my family's that bad. I know I seem like I have very little perspective when I talk about my family's annoying little oddities. I realize that they're pretty tame compared to some families. Still, it's my journal, and they bug me, so I'll whine about them if I like.
Dad: My dad is 41 years old, ruddy-complected, ridiculously charming, and over-educated. He has a dirty sense of humor, in that kind of South Park way. An English major and history minor, he's a reporter for the town newspaper, specializing in sports stories. He also has a teaching degree and received a full ride to law school, only to drop out after the first year. My father is not the stereotypical Midwestern, beer-drinking NASCAR dad. He's about as far from that as humanly possible.
Dad was born in Arkansas and has retained a slight Southern drawl for his entire life, despite having lived there only six months. The twang is inherited from his mother and is only noticeable on words like "bomb" (which he pronounces "baum"). He was raised in Nebraska. My grandfather, a military pilot, was killed five months before my dad was born. Consequently, Dad was raised by a single mother until she remarried when he was 14.
To be blunt, Dad frustrates me. My friends think I have the best dad ever because I never get in trouble and he's a fascinating conversationalist. Not quite. He's incredibly demanding; if I ever came home with a report card with a B on it, I'm pretty sure he'd kill me. He's also very controlling; he considers my friendships to be his business. I don't get in trouble because I constantly toe the line. He expects a lot of me, and I do my best to deliver.
Mom: My mother is tall, pale, quiet, and efficient. She's a nurse and does not tolerate messes. Obviously, she refuses to step into my room. Mom met Dad at a party in college. It was "love at first sight" blah blah blah. I think Dad kind of controls my mother's habits; I've heard that my mother was a bit of a party animal until she met him, at which point she sobered up quick.
Mom was raised in Iowa. Her mother was a nurse, and her father was a judge. To paraphrase Jane's Addiction, my grandmother treats Grandpa like a ragdoll. My grandfather is an incomprehensibly wonderful man; I swear, he's running for sainthood. Mom is the youngest of six children. I didn't find out until last year that her oldest sister is actually her half-sister. The big skeleton in the closet is that Grandma had a baby (my aunt) out of wedlock in 1951. Mom takes that kind of thing really personally, and she refuses to talk about it.
My mother is an expert at playing dumb. She always acts stupider (I had to check to see if that was a word) than she is. She's convinced I hate her, which I don't; I just hate her idea that acting like a moron makes her likeable. That came out harsher than I intended it to, but I don't feel like changing it now. Anyway, Mom is also an extremely private person. She refuses to tell me about anything that happened to her in high school. My mother and I don't talk much.
Brother: My brother is 14 years old and highly annoying. He was born with cerebral palsy and was not expected to function normally. He does, mostly. He's a grade behind where he should be (he's a seventh-grader) and has poor fine motor skills, but other than that, he's fine.
He's a B and C student, but really only because he's lazy. He's a video game addict. He's also a baseball fanatic. We don't talk much.
That's my family. Tonight they decided that we should go out for a Valentine's dinner and forced me to come with them. My brother complained about his malfunctioning PlayStation2. Dad told the college kid in the booth behind us that he smelled like pot. Mom kept rocking back and forth in her chair like an autistic kid. My brother played the food Nazi and kept harassing me to finish my French fries. Dad started giving me advice on what not to do if I ever get breast implants (yeah, like that'll happen). The guidelines included things like size and spacing; in short, things no teenage girl ever wants to hear her dad talk about. Mom made fart jokes.
They wonder why I don't like spending time with them.
posted by Allison at
10:04 PM
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