Musings of a Wench

Home at last

A vacation is supposed to be relaxing. A vacation with: your boyfriend, his parents, his sister, her boyfriend, his scary aunt and her boyfriend (who is so channeling Jack Nickelson) and Evil Grandma and her poor abused husband? Is not relaxing.

It was nice, overall. Gorgeous hotel and nice staff and good food and nice ocean and pools and lots of vegetation. Way too much fucking family time though. A troop of monkeys trying to organize a circus would have had a smoother time than trying to organize this group of 10. But hey, I didn't kill anyone, and I only snapped a few times in the whole week. One of them was after 4 whole long minutes of discussion about fucking towels, I snapped at John's parents, "There are six towels! Only six towels - two for John and me, two for Christine and Will, and two for you guys!" You can only have so many solid minutes of discussion about towels (and completely ignoring me when I pointed out that there are only 6 towels, therefore there is no problem) before I want to stab someone.

I read a book instead. Actually, I read 4.5 books in the week we were there, including Fahrenheit 451, the first half of Pride and prejudice, and The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul. Which, I must say, made more sense to me this time, at least compared to when I last read it at 15. I love Douglas Adams - his mind must have been so neat. Anyway. 4.5 books and two magazines. Doing my best to escape some of the family crap.

Last night, we arrived home after about 10 hours of transit, including some seriously annoying fuck ups at the Puerto Vallarta airport. It was a long day, and we sat beside John's Evil Grandma on the flight home, who again told him that he is living his life all wrong. He should have stayed home until he was 26, dated lots of people, and not be with me. Such a charming woman. And as I was sitting right there, too. Luckily I couldn't hear most of it over the sound of the plane.

I had a terrible nightmare last night about John's family. I woke, sobbing, feeling like I was just on the edge of drowning in sorrow. Very intense dream, and vivid. I'll spare you the random details, but it was basically that nothing I did mattered, or was good enough. And it is true, of course. God, sometimes they don't even seem to be able to hear me talk. John says it's because I talk about intellectual things so people tune me out (and don't even get me started on how upset that made me), but they wouldn't even listen when I was answering questions like, "where has Cathy gone?" It's a good thing I love John, because his family can kind of make me sick in the tummy.

I am glad to be home.

posted by Morgan @ 6:05 p.m.