My Family, Frankly, Rocks

I don't know why I never saw it.

I drove to San Clemente to pick up my auld mudder. My Uncle John (psychiatrist/stand up comic) was returning from a psychiatric convention in San Francisco, In tow he had my mother and my cousin Tom. We met at my cousin Kim's house with her French husband, Francois (Vice President of Billabong) and their adorable surfer son Vanya (who was adopted from Russia). Anya was sent to boarding school.

They have a beautiful home. Kim cooked dinner in enormous kitchen while the boys prepared for a surfing trip to Baja. We laughed and LAUGHED.

My red faced, white haired 5 foot Uncle regailed us with funny stories about Ireland, his parents, Hugo Chavez and the book he gave Barack Obama. He told stories about Optimal Functioning and statistical normalcy. He advised I have no reason to expect anyone I date will ever be remotely normal.

He thought Mr.-Leave-Me-In-Restaurants was...perfectly right to do so. As long as I ran after him and say, "Go fuck yourself".

That's my family.