Cape Cod

As I here in a dumpy bar drinking tequila, watching 3B playing what he calls human jukebox, losing his beautiful soul for a sawbuck, I want to apologize for not writing last week.  Vodka and tonics not only suck my ambition, make me more charming than I already am but all reason leaves me as well.  Here it is, what should have been last week’s rant:

Every year my sister rents a house in Cape Cod.  Cape Cod is very special to my family.  Not only is it our tradition but legend has it I was conceived there.  If you knew my parents, you would know that is disgusting.   I love my sister deeply but she has some giant expectations.  For the most part my sister, three nieces, my girl and I are over talking one another.  If my sister is bored with the conversation she will start cooking or cleaning something.   In the middle of fairly intense discussions she has been known to interject with, “Does anybody need anything?”  Or “What should we do for dinner? (Mind you it is 7:30 in the morning) or my favorite, “Coffee? Mary Beth, make some coffee!”  I’m Mary Beth in case you were wondering.   Don’t try it the next time you see me.  It is reserved for family.  The vacation argument this year was over my youngest niece’s (my God Daughter) baby shower.   Picture it:  a warm breezy morning in Cape Cod, fresh donuts, five pots of coffee (cause I do what I’m told) and six raging, hormonal Italian women arguing over fucking cupcakes and guest lists for an event at the end of September.   Here is the anatomy of the fight; we all scream, we wave our hands, roll our eyes accuse my sister of playing favorites and then we all just stop taking.   A regrouping if you will.  Then, as if almost on command, it starts all over again. Then finally one of us walks off in a huff.  This is vacation.

The fun doesn’t stop.  I decide to leave a day early.  It is not that I can’t take it.  I’ve been doing this my whole life.  It is how I relax.  I just wanted to go home.  I wanted to get my girl ready for a week with her Dad and most of all I wanted to see 3B.  So my youngest niece, Keeker, decides to come home with me.  Fine.  Oh and by the way, Mar, I’m driving.  Fine.  I’m about as competent behind the wheel as I am with things dying in my yard.  I can parallel park like a champ.  That comes from being raised in South Troy.  We take parking and our parking spaces like fucking religion.  I’ve seen card tables, stolen traffic cones, lawn chairs (with people sitting in them) guarding parking spaces.  It. Is. No. Joke!  Anyways, the Keeker has an excellent sense of direction.  She just has very little patients.  My girl was safely tucked away in the back seat, headphones securely on, listening to some God Help Us All Selena Gomez song.  The Keek begins with some mild cursing (GD light, Son of Bitch construction) then as we get onto the Mass Pike the show begins.  We get caught in a traffic jam.   Fun ensues!  MOTHERFUCKER!!!!  WHAT THE FUCK!!!  GO BACK TO BEAN TOWN.  DID ARRON HERNANDEZ ESCAPE?  FUUUUUUCK!  So not to be a kill joy I start flipping off truckers and making that exact face you are looking at.  We are Panza’s. We sink or swim together.   And no, we ain’t classy.  And before you call CPS, my girl slept through it.

Arriving home in one piece, I get my house settled and begin to catch up on my programs I watch a week of Y&R in less than two hours.  I get my weekly fix of RHWONJ and for dessert I get Mad Men.  Jon Hamm is the only pink meat anyone should crave.   I love that handsome bastard.   So it gets to the last two minutes.  Then to the last minute. He reminds me of a European actor.  I have always loved European actors.  They act with a look.  I have always believed that a truly great actor doesn’t have to speak.   The last 45 seconds of this season was that.  Everything Don Draper wanted to say to his daughter was said without a word.  Then I begin to weep.  Not just weep, but primal weeping.  Graveside weeping.  Pain.  I felt pain.  I didn’t know why and I couldn’t stop.  I would normally call Capri but this is the worst week of the year as she is on vacation.   I hate Capri’s vacations.   I’m lost without her and although she will NEVER admit it, she is lost without me.  It is very unhealthy.   I don’t care.  I need to Capri to tell me why I am crying.  I do eventually pull my crazy self together and carry on.  After watching this scene ten times, all with the same crazy result I call Capri.

Me: “I just need a minute. Explain the last two minutes to me.  Why am I a basket case?”

Capri: “You never got resolve with your father .  And you are fucknuts.”

Me:  “Good enough.”

 

Works for me.