I have to finish packing and then go out to dinner and get magazines and plane food and then get to bed early because my flight leaves reaaaaaaaaally early tomorrow. Not quite at the crack of dawn, but something very close to it; the splintering-off-the-main-crack-of-dawn-even-though-your-mom-told-you-never-never-never-to-play-baseball-in-the-house. Something like that. Anyway, quite early, because tomorrow I’ll get on a plane, and then another plane, and then I’ll see my father for the first time in about two years.
Are you impressed by my daughterly goodness? I can see the lines of those clamoring to adopt me right here and now. It’s not that dramatic, I have to admit: I don’t see my dad very often because we don’t get along that well, and I thought it was about time I did, and so I am. I’ve never spent Thanksgiving with him before, so I don’t quite know what to expect. I know I’ll spend a little time with parts of my stereotypically crazy Italian-American family, though I know we won’t be having Thanksgiving dinner itself with them. My sister will be there too, and I’m really excited about that. She sees my dad and The Family way more often than I do and so she’s way more comfortable with them. I have appointed her my guide during this weekend. I called her last week and was all freaking out (hey, just like the entry title!) about it, and she was very funny and kind of calmed me down and walked me through what the weekend would look like and what we will most likely do, and who we will most likely see, and what will most likely happen. I get the sense that things are very different now with my dad and The Family than they were when I was fourteen or fifteen and seeing them more regularly. I guess that makes sense, yes? But I am still nervous and anxious and hyper. I’m afraid I’m going to be cold, and you know how I hate to be cold, pea coat notwithstanding. I’m afraid I’m going to eat too much. I’m afraid I’m going to be shy (me! shy! yes!) and that they’re all going to fluster me with all their questions: “So, when are you getting married? What kind of a job is that? What kind of money are you making? Why are you so fat? Why don’t you ever come see us and spend all your time with us?”
I’ve mentioned this nervousness and everything and several people have told me just to go into it with no expectations at all, or to detach, or to forgive and forget, or some combination thereof. That’s all good advice, I guess. I don’t know if I’ll be able to follow it. I feel so jittery. I can’t think of how else to be. Every time I try to be all serene and to breathe the bad energy out and the good energy in, or whatever, I’ll suceed for 4.6 seconds and then I’m back with the “Oh noooooooooooo! I’m going to New Yoooooooooork! To see my daaaaaaaaaaaaad! And The Faaaaaaaaam! Hellfire! Brimstone! Death and damnation to all! With very thick Queens accents!”
Some other stuff has happened, you know, in the last couple of days. I didn’t go into full-on freak out mode until last night. I woke up sort of sobbing this morning, but in my defense, I had to get up REALLY early to go to the VA and I was really just not feeling it. But I’ve done a couple of interesting things since last I updated, and that’s cool and interesting,right? Like I went to see my boss have an ultrasound on Friday. She invited all three of us who were in the office at the time, so we packed up in the minivan and headed on out. It was very weird and interesting. She’s only eight weeks along so the baby looked mostly like a circus peanut with a really fast heartbeat, but it was pretty amazing. As I’ve mentioned six oe eight times here on Ampersand, a lot of people I know are having babies lately, and so I’m learning a lot about the subject and thinking a lot of thoughts along the lines of “Boy, I sure don’t want to do that!” But the ultrasound was cool nevertheless.
I also went to a fundraiser with Carl on Saturday that was held in the home of two early Amazon retirees. “Home” might not really be the right word, as when I think “home” I rarely think “has a movie theater in the basement.” It was a Marthalicious place, and it had the added benefit of being a fundraiser for a liberal hippie tech company so I felt totally fine eating all the fine catering. I love me some blue cheese and apple quiches, man. Love them. Love them so much that one of the caterers overheard me proclaiming said love to anyone who would listen to me with my mouth full, and later sidled up to Carl and discreetly let him know that we could actually take those home with us, should we wish, as his girlfriend seemed to like them so, so much. Also, there was another Chiara there, the very same Chiara I met briefly a couple of months ago when I was kayaking. I asked her if Chiara is a popular name in Italy, and she said that it wasn’t the year she was born (in the late fifties, I’m guessing), but then it really took off and that a lot of people are named that now. Man. My name is the Jennifer of Italy. Oh well.
Sunday Carl and I threw together a random brunch for some of our friends. It was a smashing success, and allowed me to eat the aforementioned cheese and apple tarts twice in two days, which is just about the right speed for me. We also made steel-cut oats and two frittata and some cranberry muffins which are the best things ever in the world, and I say this as someone who really cannot make a muffin for her life. Cake, yes. Rice pudding, sure. Tiramisu, definitely. I just can’t seem to fold correctly because most of my muffins taste like ass. Not these though! These are the non-assiest muffins in the history of all muffin-dom, and I dare you to email me and get the recipe and make them your ownself and just see.
So, there’s all that going on. What could be more exciting than an ultrasound and quiche and muffins? Surely you’d think that there is plenty going on in my life, plenty of good things that would allow me to face the prospect of being with my father for the best part of five days with a modicum of equanimity, wouldn’t you? I have so much. I am so blessed in so many areas of my life, and I know you can’t have everything, and a good relationship with my dad isn’t one of them, but in the grand scheme of life, it’s not that bad, right? I love people who love me back. I have a job and a house and car and millions more ridiculous (but very often happy-making) possessions. I’m decently smart. Isn’t this enough to blank out this overwhelming anxiety and drowning sadness I’m beginning to feel?
No. Not in the least.