Is the 'I Love You' Worth It?
Meet The Parents
Today is the day the family arrives. God save us all. I got a confirmation call from my mother yesterday morning that their flight has arrived at LAX. I had told her they should just fly into the San Francisco Airport, but that idea was shot down. She told me they were renting a car in Los Angeles and driving to Berkeley and that they would be here at approximately twelve o’clock today as they have friends to visit in Bakersfield. Whatever. The less time I have to see them the better. Tre’s parents are driving down from Ukiah, and that’s only about two hours, so they left this morning. I’m not looking foreword to the next couple of days.
I stumble out of the bathroom to find Tre spread out on the bed with Ramona cuddled on his chest wearing the Green Day onsie Billie Joe had screen printed for us.
“You’re having her wear that?” I say lying down next to him and putting my head on his outstretched arm. “When our parents see her?”
He smiles lazily. “Yeah.”
I nod knowingly. He didn’t care what his parents thought and I envied that.
“You really need to shave,” I giggle, brushing the back of my hand against his cheek.
“Yeah, it’s been, like, four days for something,” he says feeling up his face.
“You can actually grow facial hair,” I note. He nods.
“Most people think that I wouldn’t be able to for some reason,” he shrugs. “I think it’s genetic.”
“Your dad does look like Santa,” I say.
“Indeed. My dad is Santa.”
I hate many things, one of which is waiting. I hate waiting for things I dread. I hate waiting for the door bell to ring and my family being on the other side of the door. Even more, I hate that I have to actually answer it. But I think the doorbell is the worst. SO loud and annoying. Just like my mother. I don’t even know if we have a doorbell. I would assume that we do. It was a pretty expensive. Would an expensive house not have a door bell? Maybe house s for rich people don’t have doorbells. I’ve never even checked. Maybe doorbells are out with the wealthy. I’ve never had a doorbell, but I’ve also never been wealthy.
“Hey,” I smack Tre to get his attention off the TV.
“Eh,” he grunts not looking away from the TV.
“Do we have a doorbell?”
“What?” he looks over at me curiously.
DING!
Well that answers my question.
“Never mind” I grumble, peeling Ramona off my shoulder and putting her in the swing/chair. That thing has been the best thing we’ve gotten as a result of Ramona showing up.
“Let’s hope it’s my family,” he says giving me a halfhearted smile.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble and hesitantly wander to the door. It doesn’t have a peephole, or windows or anything, which I find very bothersome. It seems like if anything, rich people would want to know who’s at their door.
While I’m lost in my thoughts about how puzzling the affluent are, Tre opens the door.
“Tre!”
It’s not my family. His mother and sister hug him, and I get hugged too. He introduces me to his mom and sister Lori and lastly his dad, who does look like Santa. It’s quite uncanny. Tre leads his family into the front room.
“Where’s the baby?” his mother asks, her hands clasped together. I’m about to excuse myself to get her, but he runs off before I get a chance. Trying to avoid uncomfortable silence while Tre’s gone, I say,
“It’s really nice that you could come.”
“Oh, well we have to see the new a baby,” his mother says, taking a seat on the couch, just about the only furniture n the front room. We never use d this room. I should probably get chairs.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, hurrying into the kitchen and almost smacking into Tre and Ramona.
“Sorry,” we say in unison and head off in our separate directions.
When I get to the kitchen, I realizes we should have planned for this better. There’s only the two of us, so we only have two chairs. And since we are who we are, they’re plastic lawn chairs. This is not good. I stand with my hands on my hip, surveying the chair situation, freaking out on the inside.
“Need help?” Tre says from the doorway.
“Wedon’thaveenoughchairsandtheonesthatwedohaveareplastic!” I say so frantically that my words slur together.
“Calm down,” he says laughing and pulling me into his arms.
“Why do we only have plastic chairs?” I squeak. He tries to kiss me and I pull away.
“Stop.”
“No you stop. Stop worrying about impressing everyone. You always say that you don’t care what your mom thinks, but then you go and worry yourself to death about her. I mean, they’re not here to deal with you; they’re here to see the baby.”
I nod. He’s right.
“We still don’t have enough chairs,” I mumble into my hand, sniffling.
“People can stand. It won’t kill them.
“You don’t know my mother.”
He grins crookedly.
After an hour of passing the baby around, we’ve all settled into a sense of comfort. Or at least I have. I decided I don’t care about my parents, namely my mother. So far I like Tre’s family, a think most people never do. You always hear about the horrible in-laws and how they try and dictate what you do. I guess I’m lucky in that aspect.
Genetics are an odd thing. Tre and I are seated cross from his family, and they all look alike. ALL ALIKE. It’s eerie. They’re like blonde-haired, blue-eyed German uber-people. Minus the height. These people aren’t tall. Tre’s probably five-five or so and is dad’s only a little taller than that. It makes me wonder what Ramona’s out to look like when she gets out of the floppy infant stage.
I stumble out of the bathroom to find Tre spread out on the bed with Ramona cuddled on his chest wearing the Green Day onsie Billie Joe had screen printed for us.
“You’re having her wear that?” I say lying down next to him and putting my head on his outstretched arm. “When our parents see her?”
He smiles lazily. “Yeah.”
I nod knowingly. He didn’t care what his parents thought and I envied that.
“You really need to shave,” I giggle, brushing the back of my hand against his cheek.
“Yeah, it’s been, like, four days for something,” he says feeling up his face.
“You can actually grow facial hair,” I note. He nods.
“Most people think that I wouldn’t be able to for some reason,” he shrugs. “I think it’s genetic.”
“Your dad does look like Santa,” I say.
“Indeed. My dad is Santa.”
I hate many things, one of which is waiting. I hate waiting for things I dread. I hate waiting for the door bell to ring and my family being on the other side of the door. Even more, I hate that I have to actually answer it. But I think the doorbell is the worst. SO loud and annoying. Just like my mother. I don’t even know if we have a doorbell. I would assume that we do. It was a pretty expensive. Would an expensive house not have a door bell? Maybe house s for rich people don’t have doorbells. I’ve never even checked. Maybe doorbells are out with the wealthy. I’ve never had a doorbell, but I’ve also never been wealthy.
“Hey,” I smack Tre to get his attention off the TV.
“Eh,” he grunts not looking away from the TV.
“Do we have a doorbell?”
“What?” he looks over at me curiously.
DING!
Well that answers my question.
“Never mind” I grumble, peeling Ramona off my shoulder and putting her in the swing/chair. That thing has been the best thing we’ve gotten as a result of Ramona showing up.
“Let’s hope it’s my family,” he says giving me a halfhearted smile.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble and hesitantly wander to the door. It doesn’t have a peephole, or windows or anything, which I find very bothersome. It seems like if anything, rich people would want to know who’s at their door.
While I’m lost in my thoughts about how puzzling the affluent are, Tre opens the door.
“Tre!”
It’s not my family. His mother and sister hug him, and I get hugged too. He introduces me to his mom and sister Lori and lastly his dad, who does look like Santa. It’s quite uncanny. Tre leads his family into the front room.
“Where’s the baby?” his mother asks, her hands clasped together. I’m about to excuse myself to get her, but he runs off before I get a chance. Trying to avoid uncomfortable silence while Tre’s gone, I say,
“It’s really nice that you could come.”
“Oh, well we have to see the new a baby,” his mother says, taking a seat on the couch, just about the only furniture n the front room. We never use d this room. I should probably get chairs.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, hurrying into the kitchen and almost smacking into Tre and Ramona.
“Sorry,” we say in unison and head off in our separate directions.
When I get to the kitchen, I realizes we should have planned for this better. There’s only the two of us, so we only have two chairs. And since we are who we are, they’re plastic lawn chairs. This is not good. I stand with my hands on my hip, surveying the chair situation, freaking out on the inside.
“Need help?” Tre says from the doorway.
“Wedon’thaveenoughchairsandtheonesthatwedohaveareplastic!” I say so frantically that my words slur together.
“Calm down,” he says laughing and pulling me into his arms.
“Why do we only have plastic chairs?” I squeak. He tries to kiss me and I pull away.
“Stop.”
“No you stop. Stop worrying about impressing everyone. You always say that you don’t care what your mom thinks, but then you go and worry yourself to death about her. I mean, they’re not here to deal with you; they’re here to see the baby.”
I nod. He’s right.
“We still don’t have enough chairs,” I mumble into my hand, sniffling.
“People can stand. It won’t kill them.
“You don’t know my mother.”
He grins crookedly.
After an hour of passing the baby around, we’ve all settled into a sense of comfort. Or at least I have. I decided I don’t care about my parents, namely my mother. So far I like Tre’s family, a think most people never do. You always hear about the horrible in-laws and how they try and dictate what you do. I guess I’m lucky in that aspect.
Genetics are an odd thing. Tre and I are seated cross from his family, and they all look alike. ALL ALIKE. It’s eerie. They’re like blonde-haired, blue-eyed German uber-people. Minus the height. These people aren’t tall. Tre’s probably five-five or so and is dad’s only a little taller than that. It makes me wonder what Ramona’s out to look like when she gets out of the floppy infant stage.