Hot Wax Can Hurt

So yesterday I was dealing with a lot of junk and I kinda exploded on my friend, Drew. We've been meaning to try and go get a waxing. We'd never done it before and it looked like something new and different. However, Drew as being evasive and stalling about times, dates, cost, etc. So I snapped. This morning I get a couple of emails from the big lug:

On 7/18/06, drew > wrote:

dang man. you are uptight. its cool buddy. i am sorry i didn't take care of it. it is all my fault. i don't think a wax is worth that much stress. sorry for being such a pain. lets just table it for awhile ok.

sorry again.

drew
oh and another thing. i am so sorry to hear of your loss. sorry if i was insensitive

So I had to write back and of course, a letter from me turns into a screenplay:

I accept, I accept. I know you're feeling enough contrition for the both of us. I accept that I snapped yesterday and you got the brunt of the worst. That was hardly fair since you were but a fraction of the load. If it's any consolation there were no other victims. I went straight to the gym and worked it all out of myself. Of course, my friend Brennie (Bren) got a slow toned sarcastic dialogue outta me when we spoke later in the evening. It was the last of the evil squeezed outta me. I had to call him because the drama was a lot thicker than I could write in that one message to you.

Ya see, I've got these two senior family members that are the most acrimonious old biddies and they despise each other. One is just turning 75 in human years and quite honestly hardly anyone can stand her. She's pushy, rude, controlling/domineering, pious, parsimonious, and generally just a bitch to be around. You know, the kind of girl you just want to trip in front of a train? Yea. Anywho, when it became apparent that I wasn't allowed to bring any dates (read: boys) to any family events, albeit any hetero-beard would have been acceptable, I started standing my ground: if you can't accept who I am, we won't be attending. That's been a standard for the last decade or so. She never quite got over being trumped by that, or the idea that I could have a good time where ever I wanted without her, or that I reserve no malice or anger. She, on the other hand, feeds on harboring anger. It's the one thing that's kept her going for the last sixty-five years. Well, that and her love of cream filled pastries and good scotch. So anyway, she decided to throw herself a 75th birthday party extravaganza, rent out a country club, and god knows she's got the money to do it. It boggles the mind to think how she's going to pull it off now that Florenz Ziegfeld is dead, but she seems determined to make some kind of production unequaled to anything before the Pantages production of Aieda.

Enter one step-grandmother. My grandpa married a couple of times during his life and went to his grave with a smile on his face and a pack of Camels in his jacket pocket along with some golf tees, and the cleats he loved to ruin the carpets with on his feet. His second wife, the step-grandmother, was his longest marriage and his last one. She was good, but in a rather saintly god-fearing way. I'm fortunate in that she overlooked any rough qualities I had and accepted me unconditionally; I was all of six when she joined the family, so my acceptance of her came easily and naturally. Juxtapose that harmonious idyll with the maelstrom of my aunt. She never accepted wife #2 as a replacement for her dead mother or as a member of the family. Why my grandfather didn't put his foot down in the war that waged forever between these two tired old girls is a question that will never be fully comprehended. My theory is that he was too lazy and just didn't have the balls to stand up to what was sure to be a disagreeable situation.

Act III. Are you still with me? Good. Ok, so Aunt Cunt-y arranges a big party for the 28th. Invitation only, RSVP. Has never sent word one or invite any to me. Then the grandmother dies. Then my dad calls and tells me the bad news and that he guesses he'll be coming down earlier anyway.

ME: Earlier? Were you coming to town?

DAD: Yea, didn't you get an invitation to Ann's party?

ME: (small heave of a sigh) No, I don't expect I would. She's not exactly crazy about me.

DAD: Didn't your brother mention it?

ME: (smirk and a sigh) Nope. (My brother: this is the way wasps work. If they don't acknowledge a problem they don't have to deal with it or any other existing trouble in connection.)

DAD: Hasn't he called you lately?

ME: Why would he? I'm guessing that he isn't going on some great vacation that he wants to tell me all about, and that he and Karen haven't saved enough money to by some great expensive thing that they want to show off, and the children haven't learned any new tricks that make them seem brighter than they always are, so why would he call?

DAD: Heh! You've got a point there. Well, that's odd. The invitations went out weeks ago.

ME: Yea... you're probably telling me more than you should right now, Dad.

DAD: Oh...(uncomfortably) still, you should go.

ME: Dad, I can't crash an event like this. It just isn't done. Still, the idea of popping out of a cake and wielding a knife like a psycho-go-go boy does have it's appeal. I think I'd wear the red sequined shorts .

DAD: Ha-ha...Don't do it.

ME: (roll my eyes) as if I ever would.

DAD: (hums nervously)

ME: and in return I want you to promise not to mention a word of this. Do you hear? Don't try to guilt your sister into giving me some Johnny-come-lately insincere invitation. Got that?

DAD: Ok, I promise.

ME: Good. I'm sure we can find a day to get together just to two of us, if you've got the courage to face the village.

DAD: Maybe.

ME: Some friends and are going to the Ed Gould Plaza for a benefit that's being put on stage. It should be really funny, Pop. You should come.

DAD: If I can, I will. We'll see what my schedule looks like when I'm there.

ME: (reluctantly) Alright. (memories of another male family member without any balls.)

DAD: You know, when I fly back Lindsay is going with me.

ME: She is? It seems right that you should take your grand-daughter for a vacation. Do Derek and Karen know you're going to do this?

DAD: (laughs)

ME: Because if they don't I can help you. I'll keep the car running while you go in and grab her. I think I've got a laundry bag and everything.

DAD: (humorous sarcasm) -not like you've rehearsed this or anything?

ME: He was a date. At least I'm calling it a date. My therapist says I can call it a date.

DAD: (groan)

Epilogue: Of course someone spilled the beans. My aunt did call the very next day and with an icy tone extended the very guilty invitation with the same conditions: you may not bring any guests...blah, blah, blah caterers, blah, blah, blah, limited seating. Yea. Like this would have been a real problem if I'd had a real invitation and been able to RSVP with a numbered count of who I'm bringing. *Sigh* And of course, after I explain that I'm not going to ditch my friends if they can't come she says, "Well, know that you were invited." What a bitch! Some how I know those words make her feel exempt from any guilt of a late and limited invitation. CUNT! Just between you and me, I think I'm going to make sure all the family members attending her party know exactly how it went down with Cunt-y and me.

And what a perfect opportunity I have with my grandmother's funeral happening just the weekend before Aunt Cunt-y's party! *evil smirk* If I didn't know better I'd swear my grandmother did it on purpose. After all, she wasn't invited either.