Sometimes I wonder if Iím starring in some kind of unbeknownst-to-me reality series somewhere. Itís as if events are timed to elicit certain emotions from me, and this year was right on que.
My plans for Thanksgiving were to run in the 10k Turkey Trot in Detroit, come home and rest, and then go to my momís for a small Thanksgiving. The plan was originally just to have me, her, and my grandmother, but somehow, in the last week, it involved getting my grandfather out of the nursing home, and Bóneither of which, I objected to. Then, suddenly, within two days of the dinner, my aunt was coming overÖbut only if the weather was decent enough to drive through.
Despite my prayers for a giant snowstorm, the weather was only bad on the day before Thanksgiving, and it was nice and clear for my auntís arrival.
I ran in the 10k, and then B and I went back to my place to warm up and ďnapĒ before ďdinnerĒ at 1:30. My father had left me a voicemail while I was in the race, and I returned it right before sinking into a glazed over pseudo-nap. My uncleís wife answered the phone and talked to me, asking me if I was coming over for dinner that evening.
I had already discussed this with my father at least four times. It seems impossible for him to actually take in knowledge and digest it, allowing it to get to his brain. Maybe thereís a blockage in his ears.
I sighed and told her that I wasnít coming over and had never planned to. This was going to be, more than likely, my grandfatherís last Thanksgiving, so I was going to spend time with him, and I was going to be too tired after the Turkey Trot to go over there in the evening. I explained that I had told my father this at least four times, but that he doesnít do a good job of listening. She seemed to understand. I told her that Iíd see them all on Friday, like I said I was going to, and she seemed satisfied with that.
Fast forward an hour, and my phone rang again. It was [dum dum dum] my father. He asked again if I was coming over. I said again that I wasnít. This, apparently, opened a door for him to start yelling and swearing at me. I guess Iím evil for choosing my dying grandfather over visiting his family. I had told him weeks ago that I was doing this, and I informed him that if heíd had a problem with my plans, he should have reserved his commentary for thenónot 20 minutes before I was supposed to leave for dinner. He railed on and on about how I was choosing my motherís family over his, and Iím sure that our argument was good gossip for him and his mother to discuss what a horrible child I am.
Yes, Iím a horrible child for spending time with my dying grandfather.
I love the holidays.