Sometimes, in my more grandiose moments (moments which some in my extended family would probably argue are hereditary, just like name-dropping), I imagine that malevolent forces in the universe are conspiring to keep me and my family members apart because they–the malevolent forces–are aware that if we all got together under certain conditions, we would “activate” like the Wonder Twins‘ power and be well-nigh unstoppable. Or at least able to take the form of a glacier.
Obviously this isn’t true. I know this because we do all get together on occasion, and so far, although we usually have a lovely and sometimes even encouraging/empowering time together, I don’t think we’ve technically been unstoppable. Or taken the form of a glacier.
It’s just that this year there’s been so much weather-drama surrounding our ability to spend time with each other, that sometimes my imagination (okay, and grandiosity) gets the better of me. I guess the weather thing isn’t really that surprising, though. I mean, I live in New England, my parents live in the non-British part of the British Isles, and the BroFam lives in the Midwest. Add to that the fact that evidently the British Isles now have to start getting used to actual winters, and New England has been borrowing everybody else’s weather all year (as if we didn’t have enough of our own), and the fact that we ever see each other at all might be bordering on the miraculous.
As you know, my Christmas vacation travel plans to visit the BroFam were thwarted by a “blizzard” which shut down all the airports even though it wasn’t that bad, so I spent the time totaling my car (on a perfectly fine, sunny, dry day) instead. Then, when I finally did make it out there in March, a freak snowstorm in a connecting airport on the way home triggered a series events which had my return, door-to-door, take over twenty-four hours.
Oddly, when my parents and I headed out there again in May, we managed to miss all the nasty New England weather at the time and have (unusually) glorious weather in the Midwest until the day I left. Now the BroFam is getting ready to make the trip out here. My uncle is getting married and so the BroFam, and the Two Grandmothers (Mom’s mom and Dad’s mom–we have tough, long-lived women in this family) and another aunt and uncle and The Boyfriend and I are all supposed to . . . drive up the path of Hurricane Irene without getting blown off the map and/or drowned, to get to it. (I know, I know–I said there were no wedding bells . . . I meant ours, for the moment.)
I’m looking forward to this wedding because a) my uncle’s awesome and so is his fiancee and I’m really happy for them and b) I’m excited that the BroFam will be here and c) my Cousin the Cheesecake Diva is making her signature lemon-basil cheesecake that she made for her own wedding earlier in the summer, and I can already taste it. But I’m not excited about this hurricane. Nobody invited her. It’s like the evil fairy in the Sleeping Beauty or something. And so sometimes? In my more grandiose moments? I imagine it’s a conspiracy.