Frost Goes to a Family Event, Can't Scream Loud Enough

Before we begin, it's important to note that the transmission on my truck began leaking fluid badly last week, and thus, it is not drivable. My roommate the mechanic is looking into this. I didn't post about this vehicle development, because it isn't terribly interesting in and of itself. But when I am trapped in a place where I can't leave under my own power... now that is where my misery begins.

My mom retired from a career as an elementary school teacher last month. This past Saturday, my dad held a large retirement party for her at their home, some 27 miles away from me. I don't live near bus lines, and without a vehicle of my own, getting to and from the party was going to be a trick. By a stroke of luck, my buddy Kisch happened to be heading that direction anyway and gave me a ride up there.

A week prior, my dad called and asked me bring two things to the party: 2lbs of sliced cheese from a deli, and my acoustic guitar. My two brothers and I were also deciding on a combined gift for my mom, and I was the coordinator. The gift we decided on was a fancy dinner theater package for two. All three items posed a problem.

Let's start with the cheese. I rode my bike to work in my office dress clothes, then later about 4 miles to the grocery store in 90F weather. Ok, I realize 90F isn't very hot to some people, but here in Minnesota, that kind of heat is very rare, and biking in slacks and dress shoes isn't the most comfortable thing in the world to begin with. I get to the deli, and I pick out 2 reasonably-priced pounds of cheese, and purchase them.

As I walk out of the grocery store to my shackled bike, I realize that I have no backpack or bag to carry my purchases... only the plastic grocery store bag. I considered just putting the bag handles around my wrist and riding the bike normally, but then I had visions of the bag swinging into the spokes of my front tire and yours truly being launched over the handlebars in a shower of shredded provolone. I thought about shoving the cheese into my water bottle rack, but pictured the disappointed look on my mother's face when her retirement party buffet is ruined by gourmet cheese with unsightly depressions from the metal rack. Tying the bag to the frame seemed like a good idea at first, but as I pedaled, my knees whacked that bag back and forth like an ill-supported scrotum. Reluctantly, I stuffed the plastic bag inside my dress shirt, which made it look like I was pregnant with some kind of malformed sheep, or perhaps that Quato guy from Total Recall.

I rode my bike all of one block before some blonde driving a convertible pulled up next to me at a stoplight and gave me a mortified look. Similar occurrences happened for the next 6 miles as I rode home.

I play guitar in a dirty Irish band. We play lots of stompin', spittin', swearin', mug-swinging' ballads and sea shanties of the crudest variety. Much of our popularity comes playing at several nationwide Renaissance faires of questionable repute. During our shows I'm often drunk, running around without pants, and sweating like a whore in church. If you're into foul debauchery paired with crappy olde world accents, this gig is for you!

My family, on the other hand, is largely a very prim-and-proper Lutheran bunch, save for my younger brother who turned Evangelist born-again Christian, and has since become a fierce Republican with 3 overly-sheltered daughters ages 1 to 6 who aren't allowed to watch Disney's Aladdin because Princess Jasmine is probably a terrorist with al-Qaeda. I shit you not. My dad is one of 4 kids, my mom one of 8. I have 32 younger cousins. Add in my mom's co-workers, church friends, the neighbors, and you've easily got over 100 extra-polite and morally conservative people and their children, all expecting party entertainment. And my dad thought I'd be a good choice because...??? I don't know what the hell he was expecting, but I promised I would bring along my damn guitar.

My mom's gift, the dinner theater tickets, was to be purchased in the form of gift certificates, which can be ordered online or over the phone. One of my brothers works as a plumber, living over an hour away. The other is in auto-body, living 5 hours away. Neither uses email, and neither is readily available on the phone. Trying to coordinate a combined gift with these clowns is like trying to direct a dyslexic ménage à trois. After some serious phone tag over a 2-week period and permission from their respective wives, the dinner theater tickets were finally a go. This left me one whopping day to secure the gift certificates. Well, that's just fucking great. There's no way I can order these online or over the phone in time for the event. I had to physically go to the theater box office and make my purchase in person. As the venue was over 15 miles away across a massive river valley, there was no way I was going to bike that on the same day as the party. I ended up borrowing a car for this critical mission.

Kisch and his girlfriend pick me up later that morning and we begin the trek to my parents' house, cheese, guitar, and gift certificates in hand. On the way, I figured I had better call and ask my parents if it was ok for my chauffeurs to stop in for some food and drink. Of course, they were welcome. I asked my dad if he needed me to bring any extra food or drinks besides the cheese. He tells me that there's plenty of cheese already and that I don't need to bring any. *palmface* Thanks for the timely heads-up, dad. He also says that there's plenty of drinks and I don't need to bring anything.

That's when I recall that my dad's idea of beverages includes your choice of generic cherry cola, diet caffeine-free cola, Michelob Golden Light, Miller Lite, or Coors Light. I am positive that I have urinated better drinks than this. I deemed it necessary that we stop at a liquor store to procure some proper liquid courage, and Kisch is not one to argue. I pick up 12 bottles of beer that I'm positive nobody else will drink: Moose Drool and Lake Superior Oatmeal Stout. Hell, I could even throw them in the same cooler as the other drinks, and not a single one would go missing.

We arrive at the party where my parents insist on using my birth name and I introduce them to Kisch and his girlfriend. About 10 other relatives are already there, including my redneck brothers. More introductions. I can sense that my pals are starting to get overwhelmed, so I make a bee-line for the deck out the back patio door. We take a couple of chairs at a corner table, and I immediately crack open beers for us.

Everybody is somewhat uncomfortable, but not really saying anything. Kisch eventually breaks the silence and says, "Frost you have a very... uh... suburban family." My God, he was right. My dad was wearing a Polo shirt, khakis, deck shoes and a haircut that looked like it came straight from one of those little Lego guys. My mom was wearing some horrible floral-print blouse with capri pants and sandals. My brothers and relatives were really no different. The house has a rock garden with perfectly-groomed shrubbery and adorned with plastic statues of rabbits and other wildlife. There are bird feeders everywhere. The hallways have perfectly-spaced prints of sunset artwork by Terry Redlin, and the bathrooms are overflowing with handmade knick-nacks with cutesy phrases like "Home Is Where You Hang Your Heart". In the back yard, my dad had set up some pre-approved lawn games, but nothing so cool as Jarts or even croquet. No, no... we're talkin' the crappy velcro hand paddles with a tennis ball, or wiffle-ball lacrosse. I swear, it was like the best of Better Homes and Gardens, Parenting Magazine, and the latest Old
Navy catalog all rolled into one. What kind of Martha Stewart hell is this!?!

Needless to say, I'm standing out in my drab olive cargo pants, combat boots, and black Nightwish T-shirt. I look Kisch in the eyes, point to myself, and mouth the words "Black Sheep." He breaks up laughing.

More relatives arrive, and all of them want to meet my friends. They start arriving by the tens. My mom gets upset that I'm not introducing people fast enough. One of my uncles introduces himself, then hands me an envelope. Inside are some pictures of me at my high school graduation party 16 years ago. I'm wearing head-to-toe white, including a pair of those white canvas gardening shoes that everybody thought was so cool at the time. I'm like a poster-child for The Gap or some shit. This gets boisterous cheers from my pals. Kisch even manages to take a mobile phone picture of one of the photos, which I promptly tried to steal from him, but to no avail. Now he has that shit as digital evidence. I dread they day he blackmails me with it.

I make a move for the cooler to grab another round for me and my buddies, but they've cut me off at the pass. "Actually, I think we're going to take off." Kisch says definitively. "We've got other places to be." He sticks his hand out, I shake it and thank him for the ride, but the look on his face says, "Good luck, douchebag!" I watched them bolt for the car and jet off into the distance. Well, shit. Now I'm stuck here alone.

My relatives all want to make small-talk. I put on the plastic smile for a while, but it just seemed like too much work, and besides, I had beer to drink! In true Minnesotan style, nobody wanted to be first through the buffet line, so I was the asshole and grabbed the first plate. This got a sideways look from my mom, but I was on a mission. If was going to drink all of that beer, I needed a good base! I immediately put 2 more beers down the hatch with lunch. It was a good start.

Soon, my dad whispers in my ear that I should take out my guitar and start entertaining people. I couldn't roll my eyes far enough back in my head. I reluctantly produce my gig bag, take a seat in the shade, and unpack my guitar. I throw the skull and crossbones strap over my shoulder. I tune it up, find a pick and my capo, practice a few chords, and we're ready to go. Now.... what to play? I tilt my head back and search the memory banks. "No, that song has too much dying sailors in it. No, that one has too many verses about French prostitutes. No, that one is a double entendre for a flaccid penis. No, too much tavern puking. Too much incest. Too many amputees. Fuck, why can't I think of a single song!?"

My 6-year-old uber-Christian niece finally mosies over and has a request: Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. PERFECT! This was followed up by the A, B, C's, and then a reprise of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star again. But when she requested Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, I scratched my head, asked her to hum a few bars, and in fact she just sang the whole thing solo while I fetched another beer.

I get a text message:

Kisch: I kinda feel like I abandoned you. Sorry dude.
Me: Hey, just more beer for me!
Kisch: Is it getting any better?
Me: 4 beers down!
Kisch: Nice!

I spent the next few hours visiting with relatives, and playing some kind of lawn bola-throwing game which I can only describe as "Testicle Toss". I decided to keep a running tally of my beer consumption... via text messages to Kisch.

Me: 5
Kisch: Do I hear six? Anybody? Six, going once...
Me: 6
Kisch: Do we need to come get you?
Me: You can always come back and I can whip your ass at bocce ball!
Me: Besides, almost everybody is gone. Only 30 people left.
Kisch: Wow.
Me: 8
Kisch: Umm... should I come get you?
Me: Not bad now. 15 people left. And doing gooooood! My girlfriend should be on her way, too!
Kisch: 9?
Me: Just opened 8! (I can't count anymore)
Me: 10. Girlfriend is here!
Kisch: Only 1 left

I am overjoyed to see my girlfriend who is wearing black pants, boots, a long-sleeve olive drab shirt, and a tattered hat, covered in patches that makes her look like a gothic Cuban dictator. In my head I begin chanting "ONE OF US! ONE OF US!" I offer her a beer, but apparently the one on my breath was enough and she declined. Together we mocked one of my brothers whose wife just bought him a chocolate toy poodle puppy. Seriously, I've eaten Chipotle burritos that are bigger than this thing. I'm pretty sure I asked him if it came with a matching purse. Eventually, the humor wears off, and my family is once again this terrifying onslaught of "normals". My girlfriend can't take any more of it sober, announces an unfinished project she needs to attend to, and leaves me to fend for myself.

My dad says maybe I should spend the night at their house, because he can pull out a 30-year-old hide-a-bed in the basement. In the morning they're taking all of the grandchildren to the zoo. I tell him I'd rather fellate a hot curling iron.

Kisch: Are you on the last one yet?
Me: Definitely close. Reafy to jet soon.
Me: Ok, now itz tiome enough beertz
Me: Brothers qare sober anjd boring. Save me!@
Kisch: We're on our way.
Me: Praise the lord oiur savior Jesus Christ ion hreaven!

I staged my guitar and other belongings outside on the front porch so I could make a quick getaway. My uber-Christian brother sees me do this and I give him a big old shit-eating grin. He frowns at me, drunk Uncle Frost. His kids are oblivious, of course. The next thing I remember, Kisch has somehow used a transporter beam to materialize there in the house. He shoos me out the door towards his car, and not a moment too soon. I was about to make a true ass of myself... but can you blame me?

In the solace of the car, I wipe sweat from my brow and thank Kisch for the timely rescue. At last, I didn't have to deal with suburbanites and their demands for my guitar antics. I can look forward to an evening of rest and solitude.

Then I notice that we're headed in the wrong direction.

"Hey Kisch? Where are we going?"

"To my relative's farm. They've got a big party going on, with food, drinks and a bonfire. They're probably going to want you to play some songs on your guitar."

A blood vessel pops in my forehead, and I begin searching for something to impale myself on. Payback, my friends, is a dirty, son of a bitch.