What is Wrong with Me?

I spent the long Easter weekend with my extended family, and I think it broke me. I've tried several times to write about it, but I can't seem to do it. This is the first time The Boy has been old enough to notice what a bunch of freaks and idiots (and I don't mean the *good* kind of freak and idiot that I am and that I generally choose to surround myself with--I mean the bad kind) he is descended from, so you would think I'd have tons to write about.

I can't, though; I can't seem to commit to writing the bad feelings I have toward those people. I've certainly given verbal accounts to all and sundry--to my sister, who skipped out on us using her new puppy as an excuse, to C, who hasn't been around those people in years, but remembers them well, and to my friend P and my boss, neither of whom knows the people in question. Everyone laughs. Everyone rolls their eyes. Everyone sympathizes with The Boy and me.

So why can't I write about it?

A summary: The Boy started bugging me to drive to the Easter Destination (a Maryland suburb of DC) on Tuesday. I refused to entertain the idea of going down there before Friday at the earliest, which caused much grumbling disappointment. However, once we settled into our assigned sleeping arrangements on a torturous old futon, The Boy whispered, "You are a very smart woman for not letting us come early." I said, "Well, I've known these people for a long time."

And that was that.

***

The neighbors on the north side of my house have a pit bull, which we finally caught using our backyard as his toilet. Of all the dogs to leave off a leash, why a pit bull? Don't these people watch the news? The Boy asked me whether I'll say something, but I honestly don't see it doing any good, as people who allow an unleashed pit bull to use my lawn (AND FRONT PORCH--once) as a bathroom are probably not the kind of people who respond well to criticism. I'm putting my plans to fence in the yard into fast-forward, and I'll leave it at that.

Once the yard is fenced (and free from doggie land mines and threatening barks), I am going to grant one of The Boy's fondest wishes and get a trampoline. (As long as my homeowner's policy will let me, that is.) It's not as much fun as a pool, but it's much more affordable--and no one can drown on it. The Boy has volunteered to buy a trampoline-friendly basketball hoop with his own money, and I'm all for that. He and his friends can bounce and dunk themselves silly and then cool off with the hose. Summer will be all taken care of.

Speaking of summer, The Boy and I listened to the audio book of the Wimpy Kid book that has to do with his summer vacation (don't know if this is the third or fourth in the series) while we drove to Maryland. We both laughed out loud a few times, and were pleased to discover that the books are just as fun without the benefit of the illustrations. Greg is a good character--the author does a good job of making him the right mix of spoiled, suburban white kid brat AND funny, put-upon, young adolescent.

I also just listened to Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot. I read it when it first came out, but beyond a few details, all I really remembered was that I enjoyed it. Like David Sedaris, Vowell is even more fun to listen to than to read. She's so smart and thoughtful, and while her sense of humor comes across well on the page, there's something about her voice (she's Violet Incredible, if you're unsure what I mean) that makes listening to her that much more funny and endearing. She should write text books and lecture. More people should know how awesome she is, because then more people would see how interesting and important and meaningful history and civics really are.

***

I guess that's it for me today. Time to return to my efforts to stay awake while doing tedious work in an office that is 9,000-degrees despite the fact that it's not at all hot outside and the cool air being sucked into the window by a little fan that's pointing directly at me. It's seriously like physics doesn't exist in here, because the temperature in this room will not alter. The life is sucked out of me in proportion to the sweat that soaks my undergarments as I sit at my desk. I went to college so I wouldn't have to sweat at work (an important lesson I learned as a flagger for a road crew in the summers), yet despite a BA and MLIS, here I sit and sweat. Thanks, Universe. You're the best.