The Road to San Diego
Twice a year I go down to San Diego with my father to visit my grandparents and aunt in San Diego. We used to drive a lot, but the past five years or so we decided to fly exclusively. Anyway, for the past couple of years we’ve decided to drive down because it’s more fun then dealing with the airport. It’s a cliché to say that airports suck, but it’s still true.
Oakland International is the worst airport I’ve ever been too; I’ve been there at least 30 times in my life, and I can only remember about two or three good experiences. I can recount at least 10 bad ones. All I can say is that place needs a new general manager. Is Matt Millen available? Oh, wait.
Anyway, the drive was pleasant. I read a good chunk of Bill Simmons new book, “The Book of Basketball” and admired the extensive amount of flat land that was being occupied with cattle that were on there way to die.
One of the many funny things Simmons wrote in his book revolved around a basketball team that had a drug addicted player at each position. For instance, someone like Lenny Bias was one of the starting forwards and the head coach was Amy Winehouse. I think it’d be funny to see her manage a basketball team while she took puffs from her crack pipe.
I knew this before we left, but my dad insisted that we stay the night in Anaheim instead of going all the way to San Diego because my aunt and grandparents live such a rigid schedule that any small disturbance sends them through the roof. They wanted us in the morning or before 5 PM, and that wasn’t going to happen so we stayed at a Super 8 near Disneyland.
Orlando of the West: Anaheim
The motel room was fine, and I should say I’m not one of those elitists who expects five-star service when you go to a motel, but this place was odd. Not so much the place, but rather the whole area.
My dad and I went to Denny’s around six at night to eat and we noticed the strangest thing: we were the only two people in the entire restaurant. The IHOP across the street was packed and this Denny’s was completely empty. Not a good sign.
We ordered and sat there for a good 10 minutes before they decided to make coffee. Even the menu wasn’t quite right. It’s like this one franchise decided they wanted to print whatever they wanted. To make a long story short (an expression I despise) the food was so greasy that I thought my veins instantly shut. They didn’t even have salt or pepper at any of the tables. It was way too weird. I can guarantee anyone that if they were there they would have thought it was surreal. And that’s because it was.
We got back to the room and decided to work on an English paper that was due the next day (online class) and of course it wouldn’t be tradition if I didn’t start my work until the night before.
I rattled through it and became so bored of just everything. It just hit me how empty I felt. Not a great feeling; although I’m not sure if it was depression or just a general lack of having anything to do. Tough call. I took some NyQuil and popped an Ativan to make sure I was gone.
This backfired, however. Apparently I had already slept about 36 hours the past three days and my body just wasn’t tired. I slept five hours and woke up at 2 AM to that infomercial where the two women are talking about the Trojan vibrator and how it’s so risqué but they still want to try it, and then the older women pops up and talks about how she loves hers and uses it all the time.
I chuckled and got up to shower. The shampoo and conditioner weren’t in bottles, but rather ketchup-like packets. Just an interesting observation. I did all that and saw that it was only 3 and decided to pretend I was the Milwaukee Brewers front office and thought of all the moves I’d make to make the team a playoff contender in 2010. Sound strange? I have to admit I do weird things like that; my mind is always racing and I love numbers and sports so I just decide create my own fantasies.
The good news: I found a way to get two quality starting pitchers without trading Prince Fielder or sacrificing any top prospects!
Anyway, we left and ate at a Coco’s in one of those newly created white people towns with a fancy/wealthy sounding name. I didn’t feel like I belonged; I’m convinced they “relocated” all of the minorities and started anew.
We got to San Diego around 10 in the morning and we decided to go to Best Buy to look around and maybe buy some stuff. This particular Best Buy was very small; maybe the size of a normal drug store, like CVS (it’ll always be Longs to me). The employees looked coked out from a night of SoCal partying and I departed with a couple of movies and a sense of sadness that I wasn’t as social as these people. Not that I want to do coke, but I bet they knew girls.
A Stroll Through the Past
It was still over an hour until Noon (the agreed upon time to arrive) and my dad said we weren’t going early because my aunt was going to give my grandmother a sponge bath in the kitchen and we both agreed that that was not something we wanted to see.
I love my dad very much. We’ve always connected well together, and our bond became even closer after my mother died a few years ago. However, he’s a bit older then me (I never like to give out his age; it embarrasses me for some reason, even though it shouldn’t, but we’ll just say he’s not one of those “cool” dad’s who grew up in the 70s) and the generational gap has hurt our understanding of one another.
But that didn’t matter. To kill some time my dad decided to drive around the freeway in San Diego and drive around Ocean Beach, one of the many beautiful places in the area. I popped in the re-mastered “Abbey Road” CD that I just bought and for a solid 20 minutes we just listened to the Beatles as I eyed everything in the small beach town. It felt like it was 1962 and everyone was just so…chill (another word I hate). It was just beautiful. The beach houses with the surfboards, the small locally owned shops, the beautiful girls in the 18-24 range walking around with big sunglasses and even bigger smiles…it was great.
I felt like my dad was trying to show me what his life was like when he was younger. I knew he grew up in San Diego and lived on the beach during some of his younger years, but I for him to show me what he experienced was really special to me. He was also a much more outgoing person, so I know he had to have capitalized on some of the encounters of the girls in the town. Man, were they hot.
I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that I had a great, unsaid connection with my dad. The throwback town with the classic music and the beautiful scenery really made my day. It got me thinking that this was something I wanted to do in my early-20s. Just live life without any cares and just have a good time.
Of course I’m not mentally wired like that. It’s a shame too. I could only think about how San Diego State wasn’t letting me in because they were impacted thanks to the never-ending budget crisis in California. This was a pipe dream, I thought. I’m also not that outgoing. I’m not one of those really socially awkward guys who looks strange and acts even stranger, but I’m also not one of those dudes who walks up to an attractive women and starts up a conversation. I wish I was, but I’m not that person. Yet, anyway.
Arrival
We drove up to my aunt’s house around 11:30 and got our luggage and went to the front door. I rang the doorbell and my aunt answered and told us “Oh, hello. I was just about to pick up Dada from the hospital”. I thought “Not again”.
Note: My grandparents have both been in and out of the hospital on a regular basis for the past three years, so this wasn’t a big shock. But I almost feel selfish that I wanted a normal visit where everyone was happy and healthy and not near death (I’ve been around too much of that for my taste. I’m experienced at least).
Anyway, my aunt said Zayde (Jewish term for grandfather; Bubbe is grandmother. Remember that) was okay and that he just had an irregular heartbeat.
We got him from the hospital and I unpacked everything in my room and just sat on the bed thinking.
Thinking is fun. I like exploring my thoughts. I remember once my aunt told me that Zayde would not have been corporative in a concentration camp during World War Two. I wouldn’t say we’re a family of complainers per se, but we do find a lot wrong with everything. Zayde is the king of that. I just imagined him arguing about the quality of the food with a Nazi guard, not caring or realizing where he was. That’s who we are: we say what’s on our mind even if it’s not the appropriate moment. (Note: I didn’t have any family living in Europe during World War Two, but If I did I imagine they would’ve survived, or at least go as far as they could before it was over. We really don’t like to fuck around).
Jews have a great sense of humor. We have to I think; it’s no mistake that some of the funniest people in the world are Jewish. It’s just something we have and I’m thankful for that.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully and the flu was taking control of me. I went to sleep around 7 and slept a solid 12 hours. It felt great.
“And I saw her standing there…”
My aunt Jodi planned on taking me to Viejas, an Indian reservation with a casino and shopping center. I’ve gone many times and I used to get bored because I’m not an outlet clothing shopper, but the casino is 18 and up and I finally meet those requirements. I like gambling. I’m smart enough to know that I can’t afford to have a gambling problem this young in life. I don’t have the money or future to risk. Maybe if I become as wealthy as Charles Barkley I can team up with him and gamble away $50,000 hands of poker while staring at the girls in the topless pool area. That’s for another life.
Before we left Zayde called me over into the sunroom to have a “serious talk”. He usually gives me one every visit, and I have to say they all mean a lot. He’s 95, but he’s still extremely intelligent and he gets around well enough. It’s really amazing.
Today’s topic was: Don’t Marry and Have Lots of Sex Before You Finish College. I should have told him right off the bat that he didn’t need to worry because I’m finding it tough to get to know girls (let alone getting laid). Like I said, I’m not some social outcast, but it’ll take a while before I open up and get out there. Therapy has been a tremendous help. Another story, however.
Anyway, Zayde told me having sex is normal and it feels wonderful (yeah, I was a little creeped out too. Imagine your 95 grandparent telling you how nice sex is), but unless you get an education it won’t matter. He didn’t want a girl to drag me down. If anything I’d drag her down because I’d be was so thankful I was in a relationship. Don’t worry, I’ll strike a balance between being a good boyfriend and not one of those needy men who are always tied to the hip. I hope, anyway.
So, I went to the Indian casino with Jodi, and within a good 15 minutes I was already down $31. I don’t have a problem, I swear! I decided to leave the smoke/white trash infested gambling pit and walked across the street to the outlet stores. My therapist has been working with me to do a few things, but one of those is to be more social and outgoing and to feel better about myself. Easier said then done, but hell, I’ll give it a shot. I’d rather be happier than sad, right?
I decided to shut off the negative thought process in my head (“You’re too fat, your obese, people think you’re strange and ugly and fat, don’t forget fat, and girls don’t go for your type, etc.) and just tried to feel at peace. And somehow I did it. I convinced myself I was attractive and went with it. I should note that even when you feel great, you need to find or create opportunities to get yourself out there. I’m still working on that.
I found my aunt and we went to the Nautica store where she told me she had spoken to a clerk who was a senior in high school and who was helping her buy clothes. I talked with her and she helped me find a shirt that she thought would look good on me. I had to immediately detour my mind from “OMG she wants to fuck you” to “This is a basic conversation people have with the opposite sex. Just work with it.” The cute girl found me a nice shirt that we both agreed looked nice and I bought it. Obviously she’s trying to make a sale, but she did spend a nice amount of time with me instead of forcing it. That made me feel nice for a few minutes before I thought less positive thoughts. Damn you brain.
Jodi and I ate lunch at the usual place we always eat at there, a small Italian deli with an employee who I’ve watched grow up there (he was 15 like 10 years ago and he still looks the same today; Jodi thinks he’s a “simpleton”, but I think he was just socially awkward).
We went back to the casino after lunch and my aunt gave me $20 to throw away at slots. We sat and talked together while we gambled the money away. I went down to $10 before making a great run where I won something like 7 out of 10 slot spins and made all my money back, plus another $20. That was pretty nice.
I can’t remember the rest of the night, except that there was a lot of complaining at the dinner table. It was the night before Thanksgiving and my family was getting a head start to what they do best. My aunt is essentially a caretaker for both Bubbe and Zayde (90 and 95 respectively) and she’s been burned out from it. I can’t even imagine how bad she has it. Her whole life is tied to them and she doesn’t have a chance to have fun.
Anyway, everyone just complains and uses the classic Roisman technique, passive aggressiveness. No one can hear each either so everyone has to shout and repeat themselves. Here’s a fun example from Thanksgiving dinner:
Jodi: Dada, how big a slice of pie would you like?
Zayde: Just a small one.
Jodi: (Speaking to my father and me): He always wants a small one
Zayde: What was that Jodi?
Jodi: Nothing.
So Jodi cuts a deliberately small piece that’s like a deformed slither. She likes fucking with him. It’s weird.
Zayde: What the hell is this? You always want to play mind games, but I know what you’re doing.
Jodi: What are you talking about?
I just sigh and go upstairs. I popped another Ativan to slow down my ever-creeping anxiety. My family is like a mental asylum sometimes.
Annoying fact: My aunt think everyone who’s ever smoked weed is a loser or degenerate. She never took chances of any kind in her life, and I feel like she’s balled up and alone inside. It saddens me. She thinks Tim Lincecum is a loser because he smoked pot. Hey everyone: Get the fuck over it. Oh, and as Weezer once said, “Might have smoked a few in my time, but never thought it was a crime”.
The Last Supper
The next day (Thanksgiving Day) I woke up and just sat there watching “Funny People”, not wanting to go down for breakfast. I went down eventually and commiserated with everyone before taking a shower. I always supposed to go see a movie with my aunt but she cancelled it for some reason and complained about something so I went back to reading and thinking.
That’s when I realized I had a story due for this website I was working for the next day and I still needed to write the story. I re-listened to the interview I had recorded and wrote out all the important facts and quotes and wrote my 1,000-word story. I was pretty happy with it, and wanted to celebrate before dinner (whenever I write a good story I always want to go out and do something fun. Anything for a party…or a way to meet some girls) but realized there was nothing to do. I waited it out in my room and came down for dinner.
Our Thanksgiving dinners have always been chaotic, with people shuffling around, preparing and distributing the food. There’s always a good amount of complaining and shouting and tidbits of great humor because I realize that even though these people are partially nuts, I still love them very much. It’s amazing that my grandparents have been married for 71 years, and that they’ve continued through life so well.
And then I thought of my mom. I think about her everyday, but just in small spurts and it’s usually not deep thinking. However, I thought a lot about her at dinner: her history, her first loves, who she was as a person, etc. For once I wasn’t sad, but rather just happy that I knew her for 11 years. Sometimes I think of things in terms of value and whether it’s worth it. For instance, one year of A.J. Pierzynski was not worth five years of Joe Nathan. The Giants got screwed. However, I agreed that have 11 years of my mom and then losing her was worth it rather then never knowing her.
Note: I know that seems like I shouldn’t think about that, but take it from me, a loss of a parent is something you cannot even barely understand unless it happens to you. You think of a lot of crazy shit.
Anyway, I sat around the dinner table, talking and actually enjoying everyone’s company. For once, I thought of all the positives I had in my life. And even the things that still frustrate me (DATING!!! , being social, getting a good job and living on my own, etc.) seemed like they were capable of tackling.
It’s like yeah, I have faults like everyone else, and my family is far from perfect, but in the end I know now how much I love and respect them and now know that I do have the tools and personality to be consistently happy if I work on my issues. I don’t have a girlfriend (yet), I don’t have a job (yet), my family acts insane (but they love each other), etc.
So, what am I thankful for? I’m thankful for my family, because they love each other and they love me and I love them. I’m thankful for my friends who’ve stuck by me through the years and who have a genuine interest in me, just as I do in them, and I’m thankful that over the past few months I’ve been able to see I have the ability and will to get what I want and to be happy, even if it takes a while or I have to fight for it. I can love. It’ll be worth it.
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