Family Reunion

This past weekend marked the occasion of an event we celebrate no less than once every ten years:  a family reunion.  Where our large, sweaty Italian-Irish family unites under the guise of a “Surprise” Birthday party for my Grandma—although this time I think everyone ignored the fact that her actual birthday is in September and said “We gotta do this shit while she’s still alive!”  She’s turning 90.  I feel like that’s a good time to stop trying to surprise someone by simultaneously flooding the shit out of her retirement home with her thousands of grandchildren, some of which she hadn’t seen in years.  Luckily she she survived the initial shock and excitement, and was alive for the banquet dinner the following night, enabling us to whore the fuck out of the open bar (thank god).

I hadn’t seen my Nana (that’s what we call her—because she is two/thirds banana) since I moved to LA three years ago.  In fact, I hadn’t seen any of my family in that time.  And now I got cousins with new wives and husbands and kids and—pardon me, WHO THE FUCK ARE ALL YOU PEOPLE?  And my cousins have kids with weird names like “Harp”, and “Thompson”, which wouldn’t be as weird if the kids were boys.

The one thing about my family you should know is, we like our booze.  WE GET SHITHOUSED.  To illustrate this point: about a month ago, my Aunt (who lives in New Jersey) came stumbling into a Chicago bar I was at.  She had no knowledge of me being there.  She strolls past me, and I was like “Whoa, it’s my Aunt!” and I tap her on the shoulder, and when she turns and sees me, SHE HAS NO IDEA WHO I AM.  She drank me straight out of her memories!

So there was boozing.  And then there was swimming.  We spent a day at the beach, where I threw pretzels a hundred feet into the air and straight into seagull’s mouths.   Every other day was spent at my Uncle’s pool.  I managed to earn the Fat-Fuck of the Millennium award when I bounced on his diving board once, twice, and oh shit I just split the diving board in half.  Wooden splinters rained down on those below, and the pool had to be intricately cleaned so nobody would get slivers in their eyes.

I don’t think it’s so much that I have a fat body, as much as a fat mentality.  Does that make sense?

New Jersey is an interesting place.  Despite being called “The Armpit of America”, it’s really not that bad.  What?  It’s not called “The Armpit of America”?  Um, yeah so the people are friendly.  They love their hoagies and their meatballs.  New Jersey is also home to much of the Italian-American mafia.  Did you know, “The Sopranos” was set in New Jersey?  My Dad and his brothers reminisced over dinner about how people from their childhood would knock people off, get knocked off, or disappear mysteriously (but everyone knew they were kidnapped by the FBI).  I remember once when we were back in the town my Dad grew up, and the Ice Cream man rolled down the street, and my Dad says, “He kills people.”

Something also funny about New Jersey is the way the people talk.  They say, “wooduh” instead of “water”.  What the fuck did you call me Aunt Jane?  Oh… why yes, I’d like a glass of water, thanks.  A lot of psuedo-celebs hail from New Jersey too.  Jay and Silent Bob, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen; my Dad idolizes Bruce Springsteen and usually makes us drive by his house when we are in town.  And then he gets out of the car and climbs a tree adjacent to his house and hides there until he catches a glimpse of Bruce.  One time Bruce was on an international tour, and my father didn’t know that, and he remained in that tree for 68 days until Bruce returned and Dad made a spotting.  Sheesh.

Family reunions are fun, and I’m glad I have one Grandparent left to be the excuse to gather all of my family in one place, however fleeting, and shoot the shit over beers and barbeque.

But ya know, I’ve never actually been to a reunion on my mom’s side; the farthest I got was to the site of the reunion, but before we could meet with any of my relatives my Dad kidnapped me in the middle of the night and flew me to the airport where we got on the first flight to anywhere but there–that’s how much my Dad cares about my Mom’s family.  And my Mom had no idea where we went.  When the two of us got back to Chicago, we saw the answering machine filled to the brim with messages.  From Mom.  Her messages ranged from fairly concerned to full out death threats.  I think they worked it out.