Monday, February 11, 2008

Scattergories anyone?

I have heard it said time and again, by folks with white hair and wisdom to spare, that nothing divides a family like property. Disputes over property can make brother hate brother and poison the waters for generations to come. I own the truth of this sentiment, but may I venture to suggest that there is an even greater evil out there? My family has been ravaged by it. It is too late for us, but pay attention and this post could well be the salvation of your family.
Visualize a noisy family get together. Nieces and aunts gossip cheerily. Venerable uncles beam genially. Close family friends crack a joke or two. You get the picture. All is joy and bonhomie. Then someone suggests that we bond further by playing a board game or two. A chorus of eager voices suggest a plethora of games - each family member strenuously advocating the particular game that he or she shines in. The game that was picked that dark night is called Scattergories.
We played in pairs. It started innocently enough. The 26-sided dice was rolled. We frantically filled our lists. The timer rang out. And all hell broke loose. As the entries were called out, team by team, the room was in an uproar. Everyone accused everyone else of being a filthy cheat. Aunts questioned the loose moral fibre of their nieces. Cousins averred that their cousins had received an education so minimal that it made one gasp and stretch one's eyes. The second round began in grim silence. Sullenly the lists were filled out again. If possible, this time was worse. People hopped around in frustration. Cries of nepotism rent the air. For an entry of a 'bad habit' starting with the letter 'M', a young boy filled in 'Monkey fucking'. When challenged by his rather shocked elderly father, he argued vociferously. When it was clear he would not be getting the point, he mumbled something about bringing a monkey home under his breath. The room smelled of desperation and fury. Incidents long forgotten and sweetly forgiven were dredged up from their graves and cast about as proof of poor character. Should a microwave be considered a cooking utensil? Think world war two and you would be scratching the surface.
Our family was never the same again. An aunt who used to be all sweetness and light is now given to hissing 'Microwave' under her breath when she is confronted by her brother in law. A cousin looks strangely an monkeys. I gaze at the ravaged landscape of our family with tear filled eyes and wish that we had had a few acres of land to cordially dislike each other over instead.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The world is made of glass

My family enjoys walking into things. We walk into table edges. We stub our toes on a regular basis. When we get together and conversation lags, we start to compare bruises. Bruises are a good topic of conversation. We can discuss colour, placement, sensitivity and size. In my family, the house resonates with bumps, yells and under the breath cursing. Its comforting. It feels like home. We are also very good at ignoring agonizing screams. We may cock our heads at the noise if we're not too busy, recognize the voice, shake our heads over the fact that that particular family member has always made such a big deal over the small bumps of life and smile slowly. When I go into labour, it's definitely not going to be at home.
Until recently, this native clumsiness has been a private family matter. We are a clannish bunch and don't air our dirty linen or bruises in public. Then my father broke the code. He finished his business at a major multinational bank and then walked right into their glass front. He shattered the glass and cut himself in two places. He needed stitches and the director of the bank came home to apologize. Or maybe to laugh. Visitors came over and offered condolences and warm soup. We could hear them snickering just outside the front door. A few months later I visited my sister in Amsterdam. She had a mammoth bump on her forehead. It turns out that at a store she had walked into glass. Since she does not carry the amount of momentum that my father does, the glass resisted her and hence the bump. She followed the customary cursing and shouting ritual. This time she had the entire store as an audience. Neither of us visited that store again. The other day my mother embarrassed us at an Archies Gallery. Twice.
I am very, very worried. If a business establishment looks like it has glass, I avoid it. At work I am very careful to trod the well known paths that I have walked a hundred times before. When we approach an obstacle, I let my coworkers through first. I am getting brownie points for courtesy at least. Do you know how much glass there is in this world? And it calls to me, in my sleep it whispers in my ear. I am an accident waiting to happen. If you own glass and I walk towards you, run. And please take your glass with you.