The Time of Total Non-Reality

This is what I call the period between Thanksgiving and New Year's. During this period it seems that every otherwise reasonable person turns into a stark, raving lunatic and all I want to do is run away to a sunny tropical island and hold my breath until it's all over. Truly, though, this was my mother's problem. My MOTHER became a stark, raving lunatic. Maybe it was the unpredictable nature of any arrival by my brother, or maybe it was the anticipation of having all of us, the Fab Four, back together again. Mom wasn't ever the same after the family "broke up" when Michael left for college.

I wasn't the favorite. I was the female. In households headed-up by Latin mothers, The Eldest/The Boy is The Heir Apparent. All others need cater and keep silent. And if you're The Girl, then you are additionally expected to be All Other Things: servant, maid, emotional caretaker. This is not me complaining, by the way, this is me explaining. I no longer wish to hide certain truths from certain folks, i.e., anyone close enough to me to care enough about reading this blog.

The favoritism thing wasn't anyone's fault and wasn't all that bad. My mother, by cultural origin, had no choice, and my father was blinded by the same powerful, Apollo-like, Golden Boy rays that came off Michael that we all were. Michael was... an angel. He still is. He's just lost a few of his feathers.

I joked with someone yesterday that for the first 15 years of my life my name was "Michael Prichard's Little Sister." He was something of a celebrity in our small community of intellectuals. He was an accomplished choir singer from 4th grade through the changing of his voice, and became the reason why many - pardon the pun - actually flocked to the Episcopal church where he sang. He had a soprano... that you would just not believe. Rich. Round. Full. Sounds like I'm talking about wine. But if you could have heard him...

Anyway, we are in the midst of The Time of Total Non-Reality and it's a miracle because I'm not feeling any effects at all. M's family doesn't freak the way families I grew with did. It was a Rite of Passage. Ya freaked. No one blamed you, everyone hated it, and then we all ate turkey. What's not to love?

Maybe it's all this damned sun and no snow around here. The absolute lack of hardship. Where I come from winter is something you EARN. You survive an East Coast winter and don't go home crying to mommy, you get your wings. But, like living in NYC a few years after you're not into being there any more, once you leave the East Coast winter for Southern, sunny CA, you don't go back. And that's what's hard. I belong there. Back there in the cold and harsh dark. The misery that at this time of year is always a little... wonderful.

Ah well. No answers today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Goodnight Mom. I miss you.