Saturday, July 28, 2007

The Last Supper

After reflecting on my cross country spree, I thought it would be wise to remind myself why it is that I opted at 17 to run screaming into the night rather than attend a local college like so many of my friends. Nothing serves as a faster reminder than some quality time with the family Machiato.

I went home last night for what I imagine to the untrained eye may have looked like a pork eating contest, but was in fact a family dinner at P.F. Changs.

Everyone was there; me, Big Big in her finest oversized Juicy sweatsuit covered in dog hair, my mom with her freshly polished diamond choke chain that she wears a as a ring, and my dad who inexplicably wasn’t wearing all black for the first time in several years, and seemed to be enjoying his new found role as my sisters “best best friend in the world” (a title previously held by our dog, Jack).

The evening started out well, with Big Big ordering for the entire table, adjusting each dish to her specific tastes (extra oil, more sauce, a side of salt for dipping) and then assuring the waiter “we may be annoying, but we tip well so don’t spit in our food”.

When the appetizers came, Big Big was displeased with the first bite he took, so she did what anyone would do... she spit her food out, rooted around in the chewed mass to find the object of her dissatisfaction, and then gave it to my father to chew for himself to see if he concurred with her findings. He did, and thus the offending item was placed in the center of the table, gallows style, for everyone to view with disdain.

This was followed by my mother showing off her freshly shined diamond ring, flanked on either side by... what else? Slightly smaller diamond rings. I suggested that she just have a mold made of her finger and than have a diamond overlay created that she could wear at all times, and we could all call her “Diamond Finger.” Horrifically, she seemed to think it was a phenomenal idea.

About that time the entrees came out. Big Big served herself and explained that no one could take food off her plate because she had already decided in which order she was going to eat everything, and removing any one food might inadvertently ruin her whole meal.

Then she told us about a guy she's going on a date with... a nice Indian boy from Derma.... except we eventually realized that by “Indian” she meant Iranian, and by “Derma” she meant Tehran.

Then she told us about her new job and her new boss, a recently divorced new dad whose schedule with this son she has already memorized. You can only imagine the joy it brings my parents to have raised two daughters who can recite a shared custody schedule by heart.

Eventually all nine dishes had been consumed and our terrified waiter brought over fortune cookies which Big Big handed out and forced everyone to read aloud (my mother was convinced her fortune was “December” until we explained that she had to read the reverse side).

Then I stole some Ambien from my fathers suicide stash and called it a night. A lovely evening was had by all.