Family Diary: Harlem Shook

Is this what they call a free write?



I'm in New York City.  Came here to paint my uncle's apartment.  Met my mom at the airport.  She nearly walked by her first born.  We took the M60, and this random woman was so struck by our humorous articulation of our family dysfunction that she struck up a convo with us.  She's a playwright, and does one-woman shows.  We won't sue her if there's some weird joke about (my) dad's prostate cancer, Flomax, and a first Christmas with Jesus.  (You had to be there.)  She found our morbid humor, well, humorous.  That's what we do.  We laugh at/through everything.

My mom informs me that my grandma paying for my plane ticket was my Christmas present.  Wtf?  Wish I'da known.  For Christmas, I got a plane ticket to come paint--and everybody but me knew.  Good thing I don't believe in Santa.

After schlepping to my uncle's apartment, my grandma nearly kills me by throwing the keys out of the 5th floor window.  Somehow we carry our suitcases, ourselves those 5 floors to my uncle's apartment, only to find out that my uncle is now in the hospital--again.  My grandmother has lost a tremendous amount of weight and has started to look like Nannie.  It's kind of freaking me out, but I decide now's not the right time to submit to crying.  Plus, there's urine involved in the story my grandma is trying to tell us, so it's all still kind of funny.

With all the doctors coming in and out of the room, I've no idea how they keep track of what's going on.  At least six doctors came in to ask my uncle and grandma questions.  I almost lost it when my grandma couldn't find my uncle's insurance card.  I despise our sick care system.

I get my OCD from my mother.  She cleaned the bathroom last night, and is cleaning it again as I type.  That mostly has to do with my grandmother's inability to clean properly.  She also makes terrible scrambled eggs, but that's another story. 

My mother's text message to my sister: We made it.  Uncle is in the hospital.
My sister's hours later response: Ok. Cool.  He's in my prayers.  Did Summer taste my wedding cake?

There is, after all, a wedding to consider.  I love my sister's narcissism, which can be traced through my other uncle and to my grandma.

We still haven't started painting.  My grandma is now up.  She's going to want to make me eggs.  [Damn I'm good.  She just offered to make me eggs, because "Well, you gotta eat."  Even though I'm the only one of the three of us who looks like she actually eats regularly. ]

I need to go help my mother spruce up the place.  I love the smell of cleaning products.  I want to hear Jeffrey Osborne or the S.O.S. Band as I listen to my mother scrub things.  When I was a kid, she used to play records as she cleaned.  She always cleaned at night.  I miss the sound of vinyl and the smell of cleaning products. 

I probably shouldn't click publish post, but I will.