Break Out the Axes and Clubs; the Family's Coming

Happy Birthday, Mr. Eddie Cahill. Thank you for putting on the Flack Jacket and making me a happy, happy girl.

I've been trundling along the Angst Supercrackway for the past few days, but that will probably come to an abrupt halt tomorrow, since Grandma will be arriving to begin her most sacred powwow with the realtor. I love my Grammie, and I have wonderful memories with her, but I hope she sticks to realtors and family gossip. Every time she visits, we have a huge row because she takes it upon herself to point out all the supposed flaws in my life and insists that I should move home to be taken care of by the family.

But I don't want to move home. I fled to college to get the hell away from their claustrophobic good intentions. My life isn't Southern Living-approved, but it's mine, and I like it. I like writing my stories and watching my shows and being surrounded by DVDs and teetering stacks of books. I like living with Roomie and hugging him every day and sharing a bed and a language no one else can speak.

And honestly, the family hasn't exactly produced stunning results. My thirty-year-old cousin is unmarried, pregnant, and living with her parents. Her boyfriend has proposed, but she won't leave Daddy's house or money. Her nineteen-year-old brother mooches off the family, refuses to work, and sells possessions for gas money. Only I and another female cousin have ever had the stones to leave the family enclave before middle age, and, not coincidentally, we're the only ones not neurotic bundles of OCD, chainsmoking, alcoholism, and manic depression and schizophrenia. Even my mother, who recently moved to another state, has remarked upon how much smoother and happier her life has been since her escape, and most of her OCD behaviors have diminished or stopped.

Grammie will be here until Thursday or Friday, so if I am scarce, that's why.