Skeletons in the Generational Closet : 08.23.03 @ 9:07 am

Its not that I don�t lovingly take care of this diary and it�s not that it doesn�t have a special place in my heart - in fact, I�m not even bored with it yet and I�m used to getting bored with any diary that I have for over a certain period of time.
I�ve just been so busy, yet at the same time I�m not busy enough with interesting things to write about. And I haven�t had any major emotional things to deal with, or at least nothing I can write about in public entries. The shit might hit the fan on that one some day in the future, and when it does I�ll be sure to write about it for the amusement of all my faithful readers - the total of which constantly bounces back between forty five and forty six and currently it�s back at forty five. Of which, about twenty of them actually check my diary daily. The rest of you are fake faithful readers who probably keep me on your friends list so I don�t take you off mine.

The pettiness of online journal keeping.
Note: I am joking. I really don�t care.

It�s always a gamble when I go to visit my grandmother. I never know how she�s going to be. Sometimes she�s fine. Sometimes she�s nice, polite, and while maybe she�s still not the grandmother I remember from my childhood, she is a good ten years older.
My grandmother takes probably a dozen pills a day. Or more. These pills make her very forgetful, more so then she is without them.
And every single one of them says �Don�t Drink with this�.

My grandmother is from the Generation of the Cocktail Hour.
At exactly five pm (and sometimes a little bit before), my grandparents open the bar. By bed time my grandmother will have had three or four glasses of wine in addition to all those pills.
I don�t know how many of you have seen your seventy three year old grandmother drunk and then hung over, but mine gets really cranky, snappy, and... out of it.
It�s pretty bad when your twelve year old grandchild (my sister) notices that you�re drunk/hung over and your three year old grandson (cousin) doesn�t like you because this is the only you he�s seen.

My entire family (with the exception of my parents) are really into this whole cocktail hour thing. My Uncle and Grandfather once gave me a lecture on what�s the difference between all the drinks, their origins, how you make them, etc. I�ve forgotten most of them, but I�m sure if I ever wanted to take up bar tending they�d be great study partners.

I didn�t really notice how much my grandmother drank until I realized that I did not have a picture of her without a wine glass in her hands. And then, there were all the heated conversations between family members about it...

I suppose everyone has skeletons in their closets. Which is why my closet door has long been opened. I have no secrets. If anyone walked up to me - including my grandparents - and said �Are you gay?�
I would say yes.

But it�s a generational thing. They still haven�t picked up on the fact that the four nice men that run the bed and breakfast down the road from them are in fact, gay men.
They still haven�t picked up on the fact that Ogunquit (where their summer house is) probably has a 45% homosexual tourist population. Which is huge when homosexuals supposedly only make up only 10% of the population.
Oh and did I mention that they think that my friend Ryan (-cough-flaming homo-cough-) is my boyfriend.
But anyway. If they�re not picking up on my rainbows - which I don�t bother to hide from them - or anything else that would alert the rest of the general population that I�m a lesbian, I�m not going to tell them.
They wouldn�t understand.

I made a to-do list.
A schedule, really. It�s the only way I can get everything done in the next ten days. What happens at the end of ten days?
My senior year starts. (gulp)

I�m actually rather excited. But it�s the type of excited that if I dwell on it too much I�ll want to upchuck my Golden Grams all over the keyboard.
So I suppose I should get started on my to-do list. I�m already six minutes late to clean my room and fish tank.

/A

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