Things I Hate: No. 4

After a man in an elevator told me to smile, I decided to start a series on Dan’s blog called 1001 Things I Hate. 1001 things? Well, yeah. I hate 1000 and 1 things, and I have a list.

Family Obligations

I recently conquered one of my greatest fears. No, not my fear of planes. Or the dark. Or dark planes. Or cold things touching my teeth (shudder). No, I conquered the fear of introducing Dan’s family to my family. Hmm, maybe “conquered” is not the right word. It’s more like acquiesced, was beat into submission, pummeled into the dark abyss where avoidance is no longer an option.

Those that know my family have often asked why I don’t blog about my father. Everything my Dad does is blog-worthy. In fact, I can summarize him with one anecdote: Last Halloween my stepmom, Theresa, dragged my dad to a haunted hayride where you walk through a spooky maze made of hay with a group. A 10-year-old boy ended up alone in my dad’s group. My dad told the kid not to be scared, to stick with him, that he would protect him. Minutes later, a Freddy Kruger-type psycho stumbled out of the hay and started chasing the group. Theresa tripped and landed on her butt. My dad – totally terrified – kept running, pushing the 10-year old aside while yelling “Every man for himself!”

(I know what you’re thinking. What if my dad reads this? And to that, another – shorter - anecdote: He once asked if he could email me something so I could print it and mail it to him. True story.)

So when Dan’s mom asked to have a family dinner, say, three years ago, it was a two-Klonopin moment. Like, How will this happen? How will Dan’s “normal” family (yes, Murphy’s – you totally get quotation marks on normal) meet my abnormal family (no quotes)? The solution seemed simple: I would have to tell the Murphy’s that my family disappeared in a mysterious waterpark incident.

And thus, The Elaborate Evasion began. We made plans and cancelled. We made plans and forgot. We made plans and told both set of parents different days and then, whoopsy-daisy, hit ourselves on the head. We even made actual plans and then subconsciously messed up the dates. We moved to Miami. And lo and behold, three-and-a-half blessed, family-meeting-free years passed.

And then, we got engaged.

This was it. The moment was upon us. There was no way – not with all my Machiavellian genius (and trust me, I pride myself on my Machiavellian genius) – I could dodge the family draft card. Dan’s family decided to have a small engagement celebration. And this was it, I decided. This was an out. Instead of Dan’s parents meeting my Dad, this would be a celebration of the children. Nobody would even remember to talk to each other in the midst of all the woo-wooing. Maybe I would even get pregnant for the occasion, really diffuse the situation (Ed note: No, I am not pregnant). So, after almost four years of our parents living THIRTY MINUTES APART, we caved and invited my dad to Dan’s parent’s house.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.

You know how you build up something in your mind? And you think it’s going to be all bad and scary and horrible and then it’s not a big deal at all – like getting a shot at the doctor’s office or riding a roller coaster or the first day of school? This was nothing like that. This was every bit as horrible as I imagined. And here are some things that happened:

1. My dad has no problem with homosexuality. (Side note: He did recently tell me that he refused to use an enema because “What if I like it and it turns out I’m gay?”) But, say what I will about my parents (and I’ll say plenty), they’ve always been supportive – and liberal. They were onboard when I dropped out of college to pursue an acting career in Los Angeles. They didn’t judge when I went on tour with a country musician. And as far back as I can remember (probably when I was too young to understand), they said it was totally fine if I was gay. To be fair, in the way of the Jews, my mom said it was fine if I brought home a woman – as long as she was a doctor or a lawyer.

Anyhow, there was no discrimination in my house – except against the working class. So before we arrive at Dan’s parent’s I tell my Dad that Dan’s aunt is married to a woman, her partner. Thus we avoid any awkwardness about the two aunt scenario. Okay, check. I am on top of this. I am OK. I am going to make it through this.

We arrive. I immediately regret every decision I’ve made in my life that has led me to this point.

Dad meets everyone. Then Dan’s aunts and grandma walk in. I forget that Dad, who looks like a Jewish Dennis Leary, is now a little old and easily confused. Three women. Two Lesbians. He’s instantly confounded. “Hi! So you are? And you are? And you’re Dan’s aunt? And you’re both Dan’s aunt? And you’re with you? And… Oh. Oh!” That last “oh” was the sound of my soul dying. Later in the evening, as my Dad and Dan’s aunt are in the kitchen – at an event to celebrate my upcoming nuptials, mind you – he poses this doozy of a question: “So you two are married. What are the benefits of being married?” Like aside from the life-long commitment to love, honor, and cherish another human being? Sigh.

2. My dad has a new habit of taking a reusable plastic toothpick out of his pocket and using it. In public.

3. When we were talking about our friends' upcoming wedding in Arkansas, Dad said, “You know they kill Jews down there.”

4. The kicker of the evening was the ride back to the city. Dad graciously agreed to drive Dan, me, and my kickass, 19-year-old future-sister-in-law back to Manhattan. During the drive, Dad called Carla Bruni a sociopathic whore.

Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen.

Thing I love: Magic.