Hi Honey, We're Home

Don’t know why I’m having such a hard time with the homecoming post, but I just am not sure I can encapsulate our trip in a witty, engaging way right now.

How can I possibly share the sublime irony with which we opened my dad’s kitchen cupboards to find that he had already bought groceries for all of his visiting children, only he forgot that those same children are no longer five and don’t really eat things like this anymore?



Except, of course, you’ll notice that the bag is almost empty, and I brought home a toddler and a husband with a newfound fondness for CocoRoos.

And really, unless you experienced the stomach ache, I cannot possibly illustrate the sheer gluttonous food-fest that is the Golden Corral buffet. Christ, that place is addictive. You should have seen our plates, loaded with such mouth-watering combos as broccoli and jello (bee’s pick), chicken tenders and refried beans, and my favorite, onion rings and banana pudding. Did I mention that we went twice and that’s only because when I rallied for a third time, I was overruled (3-5) and we went to a Chinese buffet instead?

I’m also having a hard time figuring out how to convey the week-long evolution of my husband’s early-life crisis, which began with his 31st birthday and found him driving a minivan full of kids, wearing argyle socks, doing puzzles and playing shuffleboard not two days later. By the way, shuffleboard rocks, and chris is the champion. We told him it’s because we are Jewish and shuffleboard is not a Jewish sport, like Mah-jong or eating.



Also, I can’t believe I didn’t take more pictures of my dad’s amazing new place, a very quaint gated community (don’t get all, Exclusivity! Snobbery! Privilege! on me – my dad essentially lives in a double-wide, and pretty much every community is gated – not sure who they’re trying to keep out. Maybe some octagenarians that prefer my dad’s shuffleboard lanes to their own?) where everybody waves to each other, and I’m pretty sure my 64-year old pater is one of the youngest residents. That, of course, is fine with him. My dad doesn’t move very quickly and likes the quiet life. And he’s got it. Us kids are just happy that he’s happy, isn’t renting (as he was for the first year back in the states), and that we have access to tennis courts, a pool heated to soup temp, a clubhouse with poker and pool tables, crazy-ass birds that walk around like they own the g-d place, and did I mention shuffleboard? God, I love shuffleboard. Oh, and you really have to watch yourself when you’re walking around, as there are no sidewalks and at any moment some crazed senior citizen is very likely to come whipping around the corner in their golf-cart (the preferred method of transportation within the gates).

Of course, the most difficult part for me to accurately express is how wonderful it was to spend a week with my family. There are no other people in the world who understand (and, well, often misunderstand) me better than the 7 other people I vollied for bathroom time with last week. To see my dad on the floor colouring with both of his granddaughters; to play skip-bo (our family game) with all of my sibs at the same time; to laugh about the contents of my dad’s fridge and his meticulous, deliberate, thoughtful way of doing everything; to watch my baby’s face light up when a family of egrets (florida’s answer to pigeons) cross the road; to sit in the sunshine while my neice splashes in the pool with my husband – well, you know what those moments are like.



And now? Well, Bee has finally adjusted to being home again, the laundry is done, and we are broke, just in time for the holidays. That’s ok; I’ll just get creative – and really, who doesn’t like seashell paperweights?

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