What I Learned on My Summer Vacation

1. All families are strange (including mine). Before this CA trip, I put faith in the sanity of my family. On the continuum of normality, I would’ve placed us close to the Huxtables and the Seavers, far from the Simpsons and Roseanne’s bunch.

And, okay, I still wouldn’t toss us with Bart and Aunt Jackie, but we’re not in the nuclear Top Ten.

This trip brought together most of my immediate family, for the first time in this century. My grandfather, my Alabama uncle, and my dad stayed home (maybe wisely), but everyone else showed up in full effec’: Mom, grandmother, Alabama aunt, California aunt and uncle, two CA cousins and two AL cousins.

I maintain that none of my relatives are particularly bizarre, when sold separately. But as a complete set, we apparently create a nice, shrink-wrapped package of dysfunction. Our weirdness is much like one of those pictures formed by placing many small images together -- take a few steps back and, hey, there it is!

I’d like to present exhibits A-J of the events and behaviors that led me to this realization, but I’m convinced God would smite me if I told family secrets to the greater blogging community. I’ve escaped smiting for over two decades now, and I don’t want to further press my luck.

However, I’m pretty sure God isn’t checking my e-mail, so if you want the director’s cut, drop me a line.

2. Peacocks are worse than roosters. Remember my rude awakening from Fergus? Raise the intensity and duration, and you’ll get a sense of my week’s “rise and shine” from the small-town CA peacocks. My uncle’s neighbors own five or six of these plumed birds, and, as it happens, mid-July is peacock mating season. Welcome to “Birds Gone Wild.”

The first time I awoke to peacock calls, I thought someone was torturing an acutely misanthropic cat nearby. Mrowwwww. MrOWWWWWWWW. My aunt and uncle claim that they no longer hear the peacocks in the morning, but I never developed an immunity. Once the howling died down, the neighborhood sprinkler systems kicked in: chk-chk-chk-chkkkk....So much for sleeping in.

3. The roller-coaster metaphor is no longer valid. Somebody tell Comso and Marie Claire -- you can’t compare love or relationships to roller coasters anymore. Instead of stomach-lurching falls and upside-down tumbles, the latest roller coasters rely on darkness, special effects, and whiplash.

I guess some relationships incorporate these elements, but, as B.B. says, the thrill is gone.

I reached this conclusion after my day at Disneyland, aka “the happiest place on Earth.” If Disneyland is the happiest place on Earth, it’s time to stand firmly behind NASA’s exploration of other planets. Where’s the happiness in cramming thousands of people, a large percent of whom don’t wear deodorant, into cramped, two-hour lines for two-minute rides and overpriced soft drinks?

Lest you think I’m a total Eeyore, let me say that I love amusement parks. No Southerner was sadder than I when evil developers turned Opryland into Opry Mills Mall. As a kid, I rode the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster until I could no longer stand.

But -- by cracky -- they don’t make ‘em like they used to. I elbowed aside several small children to get a front car on Space Mountain, then waited patiently for that I’m-going-to-throw-up-right-NOW feeling. It never came. No big drops. No sudden turnaround spins. Only a side-to-side whipping that almost dislocated my spine. Ouch. Come to think of it, my last relationship was sort of like that.

4. I’m still 24 going on 12. And not just because I crave a good amusement park. I thought by the time I reached my 20s, I might get to eat with the adults during our family trips. Well, alright, I have earned that privilege – but I’m not grown up enough to ride shotgun in the minivan. When it comes down to it, I’m sitting with “the kids.”

My cousins are aged 14, 12, 6, and 4. Because I fall so far outside the median, my grandmother, aunts, and uncles have made me the average: about 10. I’m old enough to look after my younger cousins, but I continue to be asked whether or not I “need to go bathroom” before day-long excursions.

To his credit, my CA uncle frequently referenced the “adult fun” I could be having. “Next summer you need to bring a boyfriend up here,” he said. “Then you can go have adult fun.”

As far as I could tell, my uncle translates “adult fun” to “binge drinking.” I had no sooner dropped my suitcase at my aunt and uncle’s house, then my uncle offered me a vodka-tonic. Before I finished that, he gave me a cosmopolitan. That was prior to bringing out the wine glasses. Nevermind “adult fun”....I was pointed straight toward good, old-fashioned adult black-out.

I wasn’t sorry to return home -- as I’ve said, routine has an embarrassing appeal to me, and there’s only so much “learning” I can take. My seatmate on the return flight (next to Mom) was a California guy, around 40ish, tanned, blonde, briefcase-bound. He stayed immersed in a heavily acronymed, tech-ish book for much of the flight, but as we landed in Nashville he bid us some farewell small talk.

“Where are you all from?”

Mom told him, Middle Tennessee.

“Ah!” he smiled knowingly at me. “Summer vacation’s just about over, then. You ready to go back to school?”

Who knows if he meant middle school, high school, or college....I haven’t taken offense at underestimates of my age since I was 17 and the Shoney’s waitress informed me that “kids under 12 eat free!”

And actually, I am ready to go back to school. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of pausing before I replied. My mother jumped in, “She’s 24!” while I looked on, as a pre-verbal toddler might seek ventriloquism from Mommy. And how old are you, little girl?

24 going on 12....going on 2?