Most people dread the idea of Monday. Choosing to live lives that rely on the freedoms of a short, two-day weekend, the return to "the real world" makes Monday less than favorable.
For me, Fridays are the worst. Just when I've gotten into the swing of things, I wake up to a "free" day, and ultimately accomplish nothing for the transition. What I need more than anything, is a day of obligations in the art building. That way, I might just maybe start and finish what I'm capable of. Instead, I hear the same ridiculous promises (read: lies) and excuses ALL. DAY. LONG.
About the time I was expecting company, my phone rang.
"No, we're not eating—we just ordered and now we're waiting," Nikki explained, calling from Culver's. "But, I'm calling because we think one of our cousins is here, and I called to see if you'd know which one."
This is not normal.
It is not normal to be one of 43 cousins (not including the 28 on the Hying side), I know. But, it is also not normal for these 43 cousins to not know each other.
Granted, some of us have an excuse that we didn't live close by growing up, or that we were younger than the others, but still. Who doesn't know her cousin?
Sure enough, by Nikki's description, I proved Michael's guess correct.
The two eventually arrived, disturbing the peace with a loud horn honk. Even though I was heading out the door to meet them at the car, they barged in, insisting on an updated tour of the chilly basement.
Michael was quick, just like his aunt, to assume the incorrect reason for my bed being in the living room. No, I do not supplement my humble earnings with the likes of such suggested means, thank you very much.
"You have a picture of your brother hanging over your bed?"
Nikki nearly tore her gall bladder surgery stitches when her twisted brother obviously was standing in the dark, unable to recognize my self-portrait, the same self-portrait Nikki had incorrectly identified.
When the two out-of-towners had violated all volume and decency ordinances, we scooted across the county to pester Aunt Mary Lou and Uncle Harvey. Soon, Mom and Jill joined the scene to witness Nikki's colorful retelling of her DMV horror story.
It's one thing to have been raised away from other cousins, to be unable to recognize them in a public setting. But, it is completely another thing to have been raised as a Christian, a devout Catholic, to have gone to private school all through college, and to use such vulgar language in the company of elders.
Something is not right with her.
