I Know Why the Fat Lady Sings

Hear that sound? That's the sound of the fat lady singing. The fat lady is me, and I'm a'singing, "Heck yeah, it's ovahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The endless stream of houseguests who have paraded through my 'burban house since we've moved in have finally left the building.

They were, in order of appearance:

Week One-Two: My father and his fake-boobed fiance who visited from South Florida. According to them, EVERYTHING is better in Florida. Exhibit A:

"It's much more humid here than in South Florida," says Dad.

"Yes, it is much more humid here!" says fiance.

"The pizza tastes much better in Florida," says Dad.

"Yes, that's true. The pizza in Florida is much better. Florida pizza is even better than the pizza in Italy!" says fiance.

"They earth is flat," says Dad.

"Yes, it is," says fiance. "You are right, as always,"

"I am going to jump off a bridge now," says Dad.

"Me too!"

I tried to convince Dad that our Northeast nook of the world is beautiful by driving him to quaint seaside villages and farms. But in his mature years, he is more interested in crying out the name of every business we pass like some batshit-crazy bus driver:

"Ace Hardware!"
"Country Estate Furniture!"
"Bob's Auto Repair Shop!"
"Sip 'n Dip Donuts!"
"Four Corners Farm--"
Bang! Bang! Bang! (sound of my head against steering wheel)

And in his stubborness, he absolutely REFUSES to pronounce "hummus" correctly:

"They spell it with an "o" on this container so it must be "HOE-mus," he says.

Or he'll pronounce the first "u" as a long u, as in "HUE-mus," making an innocent Greek chickpea puree sound like a vicious STD.

I bought an IPOD for his birthday while he was here. He stared at it, puzzled, until I finally explained what it was.

"Sug," he said, shaking his head. "I don't need this thing. My ghettoblaster works perfectly fine."

Week Three: Next we have the MIL. She babysat the Hooligans. No complaints there. (Although she can't say the same. Their birth certificates say Hooligan for a reason.)

Week Four: In waltzes my madre, who is a Frat boy trapped in the body of a sixty-five-year-old woman. We must be prepared for her. The fridge must be stocked with Sam Adams, the cupboard must have UTZ potato chips, and a pub and/or restaurant crawl must be set firmly in place or SHE WILL LOSE HER SHIT. This is why my madre is also my best friend. And why, this summer, I have become the Fat Lady.

Sprinkled somewhere in there, is the stoner Great-Aunt, who lacking both man and job, has taken it upon herself to fix my life by telling me everything I am doing wrong with it. Which is, well, everything. But that is another story for another time. Because as she says, one of my numerous problems is that I'm ADD and--oh look, a bird!

Now I am going to enjoy a silent, empty house. Seize the drink, suckas!

Gordita out.