“So what have you been up to lately?” he asked. “Still working as a receptionist?”

“Yup,” I answered, adjusting the phone against my shoulder so I could type while talking. “I’ve also been doing some writing. I have a blog, but I’ve been horribly neglectful with my stories there because I’ve been too caught up with trying to get my own site up and running.”

“Writing?” he scoffed. “Why would you be doing that? You’re such an attractive girl; don’t put it to waste! You should become a bartender – you’d make a ton in tips.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, it’s what I like to do.”

“What about your husband, Chris? How’s he doing?”

“You know that’s not his name. Konrad is doing just fine. He’s been very busy with work too.”

“Um-hmm.” He paused. “And how is Chris doing?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in almost 10 years.”

“Why not? He seemed like such a decent guy.”

“He wasn’t. He cheated on me, treated me like crap, and his father was horribly prejudiced against me.” I thought for a moment. “Wait a sec…you never even met him!”

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You know, just the other day Linda and I went to the fifties diner across the street. Didn’t his father own a diner?”

“Yeeesss,” I said exasperated. “His dad bought one for him and told him to break up with me if he wanted to keep it.”

“Why would he say anything like that?”

“Because like I said, he was a pathetic, prejudiced, stupid man.”

“Well sometimes you need to learn to deal with people like that for the better. See, Linda and I went to the diner and we were greeted by this lady. She had on fancy makeup and was wearing a fancy dress and lots of jewelry that was definitely real. She smiled and sat us at the table. It turned out she was the owner’s wife and I couldn’t help but think that that could have been you!”

I snorted. “I’m quite happy that it wasn’t”

“Don’t say things like that. You should always aspire to be better.”

“Alright, well I’m going to have to get off the phone now,” I said forcing the conversation to an end. “I have a few things I need to do.”

“Sure. But honey?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“You should get some contacts or something. Maybe without those glasses, you might want to do other things than just type at a computer. I just want what’s best for you.”

“I’ll think about it. Have a goodnight.”

Today during my break, I stopped by at my grandmother’s for lunch. She lives only a couple of blocks away from my new job and it had been way too long since I’d seen her last. As it was, it’s been years since I’ve visited her on a regular basis (reminder: my agoraphobia barely allowed me to step out the door).

After squishing her into a hug (with my heels on, she was six inches shorter than me) I saw that the table was all set for a meal. Yes! Almost everyone I know thinks that their grandmother is the best cook, but mine really is the best. As I happily ate the most delicious lamb chops ever, she even confessed to me that she hates eating at restaurants because the food is usually so inferior to her own.

When the phone rang, my grandmother cheerfully greeted the caller. I was curious but afraid of whom it could be. I prayed it wasn’t my dad; otherwise he’d make me stay on the phone with him way past the time I’d need to get back to work.

“It’s Jennifer,” Grandma told me. I smirked to myself since I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about talking with my cousin. Sure enough, when Grandma told her I was over and offered to give the phone to me, I could hear her quickly say she needed to go and hang up.

I don’t know why she disliked me so much; it had been that way since I was seventeen or so. It was really sudden too – one day she apparently became nasty to my mother, driving the latter to the point of tears. The next time I saw her, Jennifer had given me the slightest of chilly receptions. During the next ten years, I maybe saw her thrice. My dad once mentioned something about her saying I was a snob and began insulting me to such a degree that they got into an argument when he defended me. Since those were words coming from my father’s mouth, it was more than likely that the situation was exaggerated, but at least some part was true. Whatever it was, I knew I wouldn’t like it.

It’s a shame too since younger me always thought that she was “so cool”. In fact, a part of me felt like I was too nerdy to have her pay any attention to me. I actually thought that maybe it was because I was such a dork that she stopped liking me.

Now that I’m older and understand people better, I can finally verbalize my feelings. Though I’m worried about her reasoning for her abrupt hatred of me, I know that now I have the courage to ask her once and for all: Jennifer, what the fuck is your problem? Seriously, what could I have possibly frickin’ done at the age of seventeen that made you act like such a raging bitch? I know that you think you’re above everyone especially now that you’ve popped out two kids, so maybe you should finally grow up, take the stick out your ass, and be nice to your cousin. Love you!

Car rides with my dad are excruciating. The hour drive from the airport is actually a big factor in why I stopped visiting him. Each ride contains a different torture. Sometimes he talks about how he thinks my mother is a whore. Other times he tries to tell me blatant lies about my childhood. One ride he only spoke to my husband, but referred to him using my ex-boyfriend’s name. Repeatedly.

Last week I visited him again after not speaking to him for over a year. I had prepared myself to hear a drawn out guilt trip, but if he wanted to say anything he amazingly kept it to himself. Most likely that was because he knew he hadn’t bothered to call me either. Whatever the reason, the first 15 minutes of the ride was filled with blessed silence.

During the flight, I told my husband that I would finally agree to change my name to his. Honestly I had always planned to do it, but was just too lazy to find out what form I needed to fill out. After 4 years I figured I had procrastinated enough. However, my husband told me that he was actually thinking of changing his name to mine.

Don’t be fooled like me, he wasn’t trying to make some big romantic gesture. His decision was because he’s annoyed by having his name constantly mispronounced or misspelled. That’s what happens when your last name consists of 11 letters and only 2 of them are vowels.

By the time we landed, we came up with the idea of getting a completely new last name for ourselves. I felt that I shouldn’t carry out my family name since the family was nothing to be proud of. All The Angell’s I knew were either violent drunks, cheaters and liars, or had an over-addictive personality. My dad was the only one to succeed at being all three!

We laughed as we suggested ridiculous names to each other such as the Cruises, The Pitts, or the Zeta-Jones’s. When my husband joked that with having more than 8 uncles in Poland, no one in his family would notice the change, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had any other family members outside of the US. I decided to ask my dad about this during the ride.

“None that I know of,” my Dad said. “Your grandfather said that his entire family either died or came to the U.S. from Cuba.  None of his brothers had any children before they died so it was just him and he only had me and your aunt. Then I had you, a girl, and there’s no way Linda and I are having any children. So it ends with you.”

He then launched into a huge story about the origin of our family name. It lasted the rest of the ride and continued as we entered his apartment, so I’ll sum it up.

Apparently, my grandfather told him that the original family name was The Angel’s. They were upper class and looked down on anyone who was from another race, especially if they had dark skin. Some family members disagreed and they were excommunicated from the family. This group added an extra letter and changed their name to The Angell’s.

“It’s actually twisted if you think about it,” my dad commented. “All my uncles had mixed marriages. My dad had a mixed marriage. I had a mixed marriage and now there’s only you and you’re not a guy.” That did seem a bit twisted.

I thought about the story while my husband and I retreated to the sanctity of our room.

“Maybe we should use my name,” I said to my him as we changed clothes. He simply shrugged. He already told me he didn’t care either way.

My dad walked in without knocking. “Either of you got any pot?”

“No!” I shouted as I grasped for something to cover myself.

“Come on, I know you have to have something. You don’t have any kids yet. You should be smoking all the time.”

“Dad, will you just leave me alone?”

“Oh come on,” he jeered. “What, you won’t share with your own dad?”

Actually, I wouldn’t unless he planned on paying. But that’s beside the point.

“Whatever happened to the days when you would tell me how drugs are bad?” I mused.

“You’re right, they are. Listen to me,” he said addressing my husband. “You’re a good kid so let me give you some advice. Drugs are bad. Don’t try cocaine; the minute it wears off, you’ll just want more. Don’t do heroin because women don’t like seeing track marks. Don’t do pot, because that’s the worst of them all. It just leads up the other drugs.”

We stared at him incredulously. In a way, he actually made some sense.

“If you MUST try drugs,” he continued, “then only try crack. You can do it for a while and not get addicted at all. It’s easy to stop when you want to.” With those words, he left the room.

My husband and I stood in silence until he quipped “Actually, the Zeta-Jones’ doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.”

My step-grandmother, Mary, passed away on July 4th several years ago. Ever the demanding matron, it figured that even she would manage to outshine a national holiday. Not to sound cynical, but I had prepared myself for her passing ever since she had a stroke a few months earlier. She was definitely missed by all. Well, perhaps less by her greedy daughter. And definitely not so much by my mother, whom Mary never forgave for marrying my step-father. 

Mary was definitely a force to be reckoned with. She was critical and had a sharp tongue, yet somehow managed to always get our strange family together during the holidays. Despite her coarse ways, I couldn’t help but love and slightly admire her, especially for her fierce family loyalty. Though she looked down on my mother for being African American, she was outraged to learn that my mother-in-law had made a racist remark towards me. “I’m never inviting that woman over for Christmas dinner!” she said vehemently. Even my mother couldn’t help but smile at that. 

There was a huge family turn out for her funeral. Relatives I never knew existed flew in from odd named cities all over the U.S. It was such a random grouping of family members that I knew we were bound for an interesting post-funeral reception. 

Thankfully, the reception room consisted of many small tables as opposed to just one large one. I’m convinced it was because of this that everyone kept from each others throats. The unknown out-of-towners sat at one table. The crotchety better known family members sat at another. I was sitting with most of my immediate family. I guess we were supposed to be the eccentric table? 

While waiting for the appetizers, my mom and I gossiped about the family members at the table next to us. My step-aunt Olivia had been upset the entire day, but it wasn’t because her mother had just passed away. Her son’s girlfriend had accompanied them and Olivia didn’t even try to hide her displeasure. Mom surmised that it was because his girlfriend was Jewish. 

“At the funeral, I could have sworn that Olivia called her a kike under her breath,” my mom concluded. 

 “Like mother, like daughter,” I laughed. 

Seated next to Olivia was my grandfather. He ended up at that table by default. There was no more room at our table and my mother was all too happy to “sacrifice” his presence. My mother’s relationship with her father had deteriorated after she learned some family secrets, still too sketchy for me to understand. Plus, he had a tendency to get drunk during dinner, pass out and then sing. Yes, sing. Once he serenaded my mother with a version of “Old Man River” for her birthday. In a restaurant. 

Most of the meal went by without incident. Conversations were light and laughter filled, sometimes prompted by a funny story about Mary. One particular trait of hers was discussed by all and that was her hatred of children. While she didn’t mind her grandchildren, she refused to tolerate any sound made by a child in a public place. “Why can’t they just get that brat to shut up?” she’d complain. If the noise persisted, she’d actually yell out “Be quiet!” Only Mary could get away with yelling at an infant, we laughed. 

Desert orders were being taken and I started to hear a voice rumbling from the table next to us. Guess my grandfather was waking up, I thought. Right on time as usual. 

Not more than five minutes later, my step-father slammed his drink down on the table and shook my mother’s arm. 

“Julie, he’s doing it again!” he exclaimed. 

 We all turned our attention to my grandfather. He was in a heated discussion with Olivia. 

“Clinton was nothing but a philanderer …” she complained. 

“Yet you still like Giuliani even after him and that woman…” my grandfather protested before being interrupted my mother. 

“Daddy, what did I tell you? There’s no talking politics at dinner!” she chastised loudly. “Here, before you get into any more trouble, switch seats with me.” 

As they switched chairs my husband leaned over to me, his eyes filled with laughter. 

“What’s that all about?” he asked. “Why won’t your mom let your grandfather talk politics?” 

“Trust me, it sounds silly, but it’s for the best,” I replied. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but one Christmas there was a big argument. All I overheard was ‘Clinton’ and ‘Bush’ and next thing I knew Olivia was screaming at Papa. After that, Mom made him promise never to mention politics while we were having dinner.” 

He laughed. 

“It’s actually pretty serious. Olivia and Papa haven’t talked again until now. It’s been years!” I emphasized. “It was a really bad idea to sit him next to her. We should have thought it out better.” 

My husband wouldn’t stop laughing over that. The rest of the evening, I could hear him chuckle to himself and say “Sound the alarms! There’s talk of politics about!” 

Since he was having such an amusing time, I can only assume he wanted to prompt more hilarity when he convinced my grandfather that it would be best to sing a song in dedication for Mary. 

“She asked me to sing a Coon song once,” he remembered. “But I can’t think of any now. Should I sing ‘Old Man River’?” 

“NO!” the entire table cried. 

Despite the few small crises, the dinner turned out well. Still, everyone was grateful to retreat to their separate homes. As we waited to claim our coats from the hostess, a child started to cry from the other room. 

“Ugh, can’t someone make that brat shut up?” I muttered unthinkingly. I was starting to feel the post-family dinner headache that I always get. 

My step-father looked at me with wide eyes while my mother burst out laughing. 

Mary was with us still.