So, yesterday I went in for my annual vaginal poking. Good times. Apparently my pelvic exam is fine and now I just wait to hear how my cervix is and if I have the HIV, the syphilis, the Heps (B&C), the gonorrhea, the chlamydia and the something else. I have forgotten what the something else is. It wasn't the HPV because they're only testing for that if the swabbing shows abnormality. Hmmmmm... Yes well, I guess it's only important if I have it and I'm sure they'll give me the name of it when they tell me I have it. Or don't have it. Whatever. More girlie info than you ever wanted, huh boys? It's good to know about the wiminfolks sometimes though. Really. I'll let you tell me all about your last boy poking if you want.
Anyway, I had the day off so between poking and a lovely dinner with Vader I had some time to kill. A weekend in Boston left me a little tired of shopping and running errands so I figured I'd go see Elizabethtown. It looked like crap. I heard it was crap. No one was ever going to see it with me. So, why not a matinee.
Now, you might be thinking why go at all, right? Well... my Daddy is from a small town not too far outside of Louisville. So, from the moment I heard Kirsten Dunst lecturing Orlando Bloom on the pronunciation of Louisville I sorta knew I had to go see it.* I actually watched all of Varsity Blues because Daddy liked it and said it kinda reminded him of high school and playing on Salem's football team and all. Yes, I have mad love for my Dad and a serious sentimental streak. Whatever. We can't all be cold-hearted bad asses all the time, can we?
Anyway, the movie is crap. Really. It had the potential for a good time, but it wasn't a good time. And yet, on more than one occasion I actually found myself crying a little in the theater. Because I am an idiot. And because I am a sentimental fool.
It's not like I watched it thinking, Oh MY GOD THAT'S JUST LIKE SALEM. 'Cause it's not. At all. But there was enough of it in there that reminded me of my Dad's family. And my mom's family. Little goofy not quite right things that about small town life that reminded me of the true things about small town life. And with the story's funeral and memorial planning, it brought up a lot of memories from my Papaw's funeral. Which was my first funeral. And my last. And one of the most horrible things I've ever attended. Not that it wasn't well done or that it didn't honor my Papaw's memory. It did. But because it honored his memory and not his living, breathing self sitting next to me, it was agony.
So I thought a lot about that. And about my family. And about all the ridiculous things that make my family what it is. And how much I love all those ridiculous things. Even the ones I hate. I wish I could be with my family more. I wish I lived closer to all of my family. Not just my parents, but the whole freakin' clan. All the freakin' clans. But that's not possible. And really, I don't think I could give up my life in New York. And if we're being honest, we'd all probably kill each other if we lived close together. Though the survivors would totally feel guilty about it after a few years. But I don't see any of them as much as I'd like to. Which is sad. But I see enough of them to love them, and to want to see more. Enough to feel like the time I do spend with them isn't enough.
When I was watching that movie a ton of memories came flooding back. Just little things. Mostly ones involving sitting around, saying silly things, getting into little fights and cooking or eating obscene amounts of food. Just the hanging out and being a family sorts of memories. Some of which I can't ever recreate because four out of the six grandparents I knew are dead. And we're all older and more scattered. But I have them. And the weddings and the babies and those of us still around create the potential for more memories. Which is good.
And I haven't even gotten to get into all the road trip memories the last little bit of the movie brought up. But I won't. Not right now, as this entry would never end.
*One Thanksgiving some family from Salem actually quizzed me on the pronunciation to make certain I wasn't too New Yorkified. I passed.
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