When I arrived back in Bethesda after visiting the Accokeek, I found my smoker siblings—freshly arrived from New York—out in the porch. After initial greetings, my brother muttered "I think I brought my address book, that means that I might be able to visit X." I did not place this comment in the context of my disappearing every unbooked evening to visit friends. Aside from Christmas Eve at the Palm and Christmas dinner at home, I was somewhere else for dinner each night of the week I spent in Maryland.
I went inside to greet my 14 year old niece, who was staring out the plate glass windows into the deciduous forest "The Woods." I explained that I had been visiting friends in southern Maryland, and that I was going away for dinner that night. She said "You are so lucky to have a car and to have places to go."
Shortly thereafter, my sister lamented the fact that her good friend in Bethesda was in Texas at the mother-in-law's. She had no means of escape. It was then that I realized that the first thing each of us thought to do was get the hell out of there. What is it about being home for the holidays that makes us dread being there?
Posted by webs0080 at December 23, 2004 7:45 AMIt's because all that CRAP about being a kid comes back instantly. In my case, it means I have to endure endless Republican rants and I dare not open my mouth in opposition, because then it would be World War III, started in Missouri, the Show-Me State. I feel just as powerless now as I did then, when they were feeding and clothing me and putting a roof over my head.
Posted by: Suzanne at December 29, 2004 2:14 PM