We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Program

For those of you who were tuning in today to see the next (possibly final) chapter of the BBQ epic, I apologize for my egregious lack of etiquette. Sometimes we are forced to change course midstream in this blogging business and unfortunately this is one of those days. Prior to 9/11, there was a huge uproar regarding a rogue US Rep from California that was inundating our airwaves mercilessly every day. He had some sort of relationship with a missing girl whose name completely escapes me at this point, but up until September 10th, her damn photo started every newscast and his link to her and suspected foul play absolutely overwhelmed our senses to the point it was unavoidable. Not quite the in depth newsworthiness that was the Elian Gonzales or the JonBenet crap, but every freaking day, we had to hear about this now completely forgotten politician and his missing tartlet.

Well, once September 11th happened, they suddenly weren't so important to everybody. Believe me, I am not making light of anything that happened that day or since, but suddenly some California rep and his missing mistress were rendered entirely irrelevant. In fact, they completely faded from the American subconscious overnight. I've completely forgotten both of their names, and if you don't remember either of them, believe me we heard every bleeping detail of both of their convoluted lives for months. It was painful and I am certain that one of the readers out there can educate all of us who these folks were (Aaron, that would be you). Like that day in September when these two moved from the dartboard to the back burner of the American Media, the BBQ story suddenly and unexpectedly has to be put on hold indefinitely. I am hoping to return to the exciting conclusion very soon, but I can no longer hold off on getting to the most exciting blogging story of the year and that is the insanity that is my family rolled around the backdrop our annual beach vacation.

I thought that I could make it to mid week before offering up to the world a preview of our trip, and as such, we would all have the chance to see a tidy bow put on the fascination that is the world of Friscan (that would be Frisco style) BBQ. But as the daily toll of countless e-mails between family members pounds upon my consciousness, I must take a detour from the intended topic and delve into the endless riches of comedy that my family represents to the rest of the world as they prattle about with the nonsensical realm of all they deem integral to existence. To that end, I apologize in advance and will most certainly get to the end of the fascinating BBQ thing. But for right now, BBQ is as important as Chandra Levy and that other guy (thanks Kim--in a second I'll Google that name and figure out what the former politician turned fry cook at In-N-Out Burger's name is).

Many of you out there have not been fully indoctrinated into the fascinating study that is my family. Sure, you have had teasers here and there--an occasional anecdote about Grampa G or Aunt Shari, but until you have experienced the entire clan, up close and personal, all at the same time, you truly haven't lived on the edge. Few have entered into this world and lived to talk about it--the last one to try was Opa, God rest his soul. If you are daring enough to attempt consorting with this band of crazies, and you can maintain the proper perspective, the constant barrage of laughter that one might derive from their antics (unbeknown to them--Bill Simmons of ESPN refers to this as the Unintentional Comedy Scale) is well worth any risk you might encounter along the way. But perspective is difficult to say the least. Not naming any in-laws directly, but there have been many a brother or sister-in-law who thought they could handle the daily grind of voluminous nagging, whining and bitching for a week at a time without feeling the few remaining strands of their dignity (nay their soul) seep away. It isn't so much any one incident, mind you, but rather the constancy of it all. At first, you walk into the beach house and think to yourself, "This isn't so bad--sure they have been arguing unabashedly and unapologetically for 2 1/2 hours about who is getting the King sized bed, and sure three of them have left the room in tears, and sure our kids are going to be spending the majority of their formative years in hard core therapy, but this is a really nice house and it has to settle down some time soon. Nobody can nit-pick and whine incessantly over nothing for a whole evening." Unfortunately, this is only the beginning of the seven days of hell that are waiting for any who dare go this far or dare take a second to step back and actually allow themselves to get sucked into the minutia and insanity of every conversation that will permeate the dwelling for the next 168 hours.

So to say that I expect to have some blogworthy materials to choose from next week might be the understatement of the year. We are heading to a remote beachhead in Maine on Saturday and depending upon whose turn it is on the insan-o-meter, you just never know who is going to be the one who provides the fodder for my daily amusement. I am hoping that it translates appropriately into the written word, and I have every intention of taking some time each day to update a posting about whatever strikes me at that particular moment. Being trapped in a house for seven days with people who are probably going to make a point to read every nugget I write about them should make it even more entertaining. If not, and everybody is walking on eggshells on their best behavior to avoid the biting commentary that reaches nearly libelous proportions when not kept in check, even the better. At least I will have a relaxing week at the beach. Realistically, for you the reader out there, I would put the chances of everybody choosing the same week to behave while stuck in the same house with 13 other members of our family (as well as numerous guest appearances over the seven days) somewhere in the vicinity of winning both Powerball and Publishers Clearing House simultaneously only to be hit by a meteor as Ed McMahon handed you the giant check. So fear not my friends, this week should produce a hearty feast for your viewing pleasure.

In the interim, my family has haphazardly provided me with the proper fodder for today's posting in their daily communications about our impending journey. You would think that they wouldn't have to toss up so many softballs for me to take a swing at, but it has been a while since I posted with any regularity, and I understand they are looking to get me started back up with as few excuses as possible. I guess they were feeling like it was time to give me some good material. Enter the pre-trip e-mails to provide today's episode. I guess the e-mails can actually be traced back almost a full year. That was when we started the discussion about where we were going to go this year. Those of you who are unaware of our annual trip up to this point, I probably need to provide some background. About 5 years ago, my Mom (affectionately referred to as Gramma G most the time) decided that she would spend our future inheritance in as frivolous a manner as humanly possible. She was going to go out and create her own boy band with the dough, but after the spectacle that Justin Timberlake made of himself at the superbowl (and the way it nearly destroyed the FCC and cost Uncle Aaron his job), she just couldn't justify that anymore. Her next plan was to create a colony for wayward librarians who were unable to successfully transition from the Dewey Decimal System to the modern conveniences of the Internet. This also ended up being a disappointment to her when she discovered that nobody actually ever understood the Dewey Decimal System in the first place and all of the books she kept asking people to file for the last 40 years of her life had instead been merely color coded. You can imagine her dismay and inability to face the fact that she had wasted the better part of her life learning that 542.223540 was supposed to be reserved for a history of pre-colonial Latvia, and not Little Bear Finds a Stream. Instead of facing the harsh reality that her two lifelong dreams might never be realized and instead of giving up in the face of challenge, she decided that she would find a way to squander what was rightfully mine by forcing all of us to pile into a large seaside house for a week each year.

And the caveat was that we would rotate who chose the destination (actually this part of the equation was added on my suggestion three years ago, so that we wouldn't keep being stuck at Crescent Beach in the condo I broke into dozens of times in my teenage years). This family was responsible for picking the area, finding a house to rent, organizing the details and choosing the week. This year that responsibility fell on Aaron and Kathy who decided that instead of embracing the heat of the Summer, it might be nice to rent a house where the average daytime temperature just a couple of ticks below 130 degrees. To me this seemed completely reasonable. In fact, it seemed downright delightful. We had spent the last three years in Florida, North Carolina and South Carolina beaches respectively. I was thrilled that somebody was going to have the courage to pick something north of the Mason-Dixon line for a getaway, but you would have thought they had decided to park our asses in Uzbekistan for vacation with the turmoil that ensued. First, the thought of Maine was incomprehensible to one of my sisters (I have searched my memory bank to the best of my ability and unfortunately the details are extremely sketchy. Most of my short-term memory gets blended together now, which is why it's so tragic that the BBQ story is on hold now. All I know is that both of my sisters were bitching about something about going to Maine. Who did what bitching and exactly when the bitching took place, that might be anybody's guess. The nice thing is that in about two hours when both of them figure out that I have posted about them, there will be a rebuttal where they unequivocally deny any wrongdoing and blame somebody else--just part of the amusement my friends--stay tuned). When they showed us a picture of this absolutely gorgeous old farmhouse , you can only imagine the hell that broke loose. We were still at the South Carolina house at the time and Kim and I thought it was absolutely amazing. For the sake of the story, I'll take a stab here and say Rebecca was pissed off because there wasn't a pool. Shari was upset because there were too few King sized beds or some other damn reason that this house wouldn't work for either one.

For two weeks after we got back from SC, they e-mailed back and forth about the horrors that awaited us if they chose the farm house. It turned out that the house was on the market and the only rentals available were Monday to Monday, so they ended up ditching that as an option. Shari spent countless hours online finding a better house for them to choose (because Lord only knows they would be able to handle such a thing on their own. Now that I think about it, the house that Kim and I ultimately ended up choosing in The Outer Banks the prior year has been claimed by at least Shari and Gramma G separately as though they were Ponce de Freakin' Leon finding the fountain of nice beachfront houses. Everybody has to butt their ass in and take the credit, regardless of their role). The house she found was too far from the beach for Rebecca, so it just wouldn't work for anybody. To their credit, Aaron and Kathy stayed the course, send obligatory e-mails making sure that everybody had a chance to offer legitimate reservations about this particular house in Scarborough and ultimately picked one on their own. I assure you that when it isn't perfect next week, Shari will pipe up about how if we picked the house she found, none of these problems would exist. The only way that doesn't happen is if she reads this thing and runs to a closet every time she feels the compulsion to tell the world that her house would have been far superior.

Once the house is settled upon, there isn't much interaction regarding the summer rental until Thanksgiving when we rehash everything at some poor sap's house. Other than that, the topic gets dropped until about two weeks prior to the event. (Sorry to interrupt, but if you were going crazy trying to remember that US Rep's name it was Gary Condit--just took a break and Googled that dead Levy chick) One of my biggest issues with the summer trip the past couple of years has been the grocery thing. Nothing should be simpler, but you would think it was the Salt II talks trying to orchestrate food at this week long summit. It seems that every year, we arrive at our destination and there is a huge uproar about who needs to go and get the groceries for the week. In 2005, we were the first to arrive, we were the ones who picked out the house and we were waiting around to check into the house anyway, so we were volunteered to forage for everybody else. It wouldn't have been any kind of issue except for the fact that everybody in my family is a complete pain in the ass (those of you who do not consider yourselves complete pain in the asses, I apologize, but when it comes to the grocery thing and you're a blood relative, you are a complete pain in the ass). We were told (that differs a great deal from asked politely) what to get everybody and there were some extensive lists provided. When we were finally able to check into the house, we weren't greeted by one Thank you for saving them time and energy. Instead we were inundated with a barrage of individuals whining about how we got the wrong kind of breakfast cereal or we didn't get nearly enough bananas for the week or it was supposed to be caffeine free Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper or how could we get ground beef, but no ground turkey. So instead of being thanked for our efforts, we were instead chastised and sent back out to fetch the right items to satisfy their slovenly needs. At that point, I was more than happy to escape for a couple of hours. Somehow, the next year, though we were among the last to arrive, I was again volunteered for the thankless, never-ending food run.

Thankfully, Aaron took the initiative this year to send out an e-mail two weeks ago to try to ascertain everybody's particular needs for the week with regard to food. He volunteered to make a trip to the store before we arrived and eliminate so many of the problems that have cropped up over the last several years. Some of my family members took this gesture as an invitation to provide 60-70 specific items that had a range and scope that some might think to be unfathomable. Where else are you going to find a list that includes 1% Milk, 2% Chocolate Milk, Milk Duds, Milquetoast, a Breast Milk Pump, Spicy Jalapeno Cheez-Its, Boar's Head Rare Roast Beef sliced using the #3 setting on the meat slicer, and designer colostomy bags? You have to be a part of this family to experience such things, and over the next 11 days, you are in for the event of a lifetime. Kim is planning on packing all of our food in our luggage (she has completely turned into Meemaw, by the way--I can't wait to see how the 9 lbs of bacon holds up between my boxer shorts and frozen chicken). This is what my life has become.

The next e-mail fiasco has taken place over the last 24 hours and involves the obligatory photo shoot that we now find ourselves mired in on an annual basis. I don't understand this whole process. While we were growing up, Gramma and Grampa G had one family photo taken--one! I am forever enshrined on the wall in their study sporting a blue collared shirt with all the colors of the gay and lesbian coalition flag striped horizontally across my proud chest, a pair of tan courdoroys and a cheesy grin that hasn't faded in nearly 30 years on their wall. So now, suddenly, we are forced to dress up in the same outfits every freaking summer so we can have the same damn people in the same damn picture with the same damn background for some damn reason. I am yet to figure it out. The 5x7 collectors item I received two years ago still maintains a special place in my heart. Are you kidding me? What is the point? So not only do we have to waste an entire afternoon posing again and again and again, "OK, now let's do one with just the boys. Great. Now let's do one with all the brothers and sisters. Great." Now let's shoot me in the spleen if I have to go through this again.

We have received no less than 10 e-mails today back and forth about the necessity for all of us to wear khaki pants and a white shirt (except for the girls who need to be in white dresses). Rebecca seems to relish her role as official dresser of our family for photo shoot day and is instrumental in choosing outfits for all of us that make us look like the Bobsy Twins in the twisted grips of mesculin binge. What kind of white shirt. . .Can it be a button down. . . can it be a t-shirt. . .can it have writing on it. . .We don't have khaki pants. . . This year, we are going to have our guests who are brave enough to actually show up to our rental next week take the photos for us. Very nice. "Hey thanks for making the 4 hour drive up here. I hope you brought a camera--we'd love for you to take family photos for us until sundown. Thanks so much."

Here's my solution. How about we skip a year of the exact same family photo (sorry, there are two new kids this year, so the photo would be completely different this time around). Why don't we give them a year of growing and then take the picture every couple of years. We somehow made it through an entire childhood with one family portrait. I am almost positive, we could take one summer off and we would all survive. Oh great, now I'm the bad guy--see how that works. I have been tracking Kim's stress level daily on a scale from 1-10. We call it the Annual Stressed- (Summer House)-Out Level (Or ASSHOL for short). Right now her ASSHOL is a 9 and rising.

All I know is that there are days and days of fun ahead for all of us to enjoy. I am going to do all I can to provide you with an up close and personal look into the beast that is the annual beach house trip. Trust me when I say that it is not going to always be pretty. But I assure you if you take a step back from the natural rage that accompanies every interaction with my family, amusement abounds. You are in for a treat. Hopefully I can sneak in a day to finish the BBQ thing, but it took me 6 years to find out that Chandra Levy was found dead in a park outside of Washington, DC, how long do you think it might take to hear about the White Trash Bacon Wraps on the 4th of July in Frisco, TX?