The Fiery One and I spent the weekend in Cosmopolis with my family celebrating my maternal grandparents' 65th wedding anniversary.

Let me tell you, when your cousin is bringing his girlfriend, who came back from Japan with him a few months ago, and you've heard that she is from the "wrong side of the tracks", is covered with tattoos, and may have a father with "mob affiliations", don't start thinking about the yakuza and get your hopes up that she will be all Gogo Yubari or anything like that. She dressed conservatively enough that nary a tattoo could be seen, and she didn't speak enough english to do anything but accept a cup of coffee with a yes, please.

And I was so looking forward to seeing some variation on the shaolin style of rope dart flying at our most unsanitarily hairy waiter at the breakfast buffet on Sunday morning.

No, instead of Gogo Yubari and ancient weapon craft, we ate food continually, slowly blending breakfast into mid-morning snacks into lunch into mid-afternoon snacks into supper into evening desserts. We also talked about who was dead, who was dying, and who looked like they might be either judging by how horribly they had aged. There were also home movies, but those are wicked boring all on their own without having their painful boringness ground down and reconstituted as humorous narrative about the porridge-like life of white, religious suburbanites.

Younger cousins were on hand for entertainment as well, which gave some reprieve from the Parade Of Tales Of The Dead, The Dying, And The Ugly, but the children could only be handled in small amounts. My ovaries shrivelled yet a little more, making progress in their slow retreat into my kidneys, when my smallest cousin spent much of her time shrieking out noncontextual, monosyllabic nouns. Poop! or Beer! or Doll! lose all meaning when belted out in whale-speak.

I like cats.

Actually, the members of my extended family are all very nice people, but like it is with family, I am mean and talk about them all as though they are uncultured religious zealots, which is only partly true. They are also writers and real estate agents and teachers and doctors and ex-insurance salespeople who, for the most part, were pretty nice to me when I was a kid, and my consumption of two 5-HTP with a glass of red wine does no harm to our adult relationships in the present.

Now, care of i, asshole, I am watching transgressive music videos to aid in my post family reunion healing process:

Does anyone else out there have the urge to use family gifts of money for drugs? No? Oh. Me, neither.*

*I like to think of myself as a fairly decent human being, but I think that I am capable of taking passive aggression to a whole new level.