In Boston, my grandmother had 15 brothers and sisters when she was growing up. As she was having her second child (my mother), her mother was pregnant with her youngest child. As a result, my mother’s youngest uncle is only six months older than she is, and most of her cousins are younger than her, some 30+ years younger. There are hundreds of Leary family members all over the Boston area, and it all started with my grandmother’s generation. The original Leary family, living in a small house in a poor section of Boston, was their own small Irish mob. And as time progressed, they became like the Kennedys, except without the money or the compound.
Since I grew up in Daytona Beach, I didn’t get to spend much time with my mother’s cousins (who were all my age), and with the exception of a few of them moving to Florida for a year or two, my exposure to them was very limited. So when my (second) cousins Michaela and Julianne came up with the idea and planned a get-together, respectively, for all of the cousins 20-40(ish) up in Boston, I knew I had to go. It had been at least 7 or 8 years since I had seen some of them, 10-15 for others, and there were even a few that I had never met.
I flew up on Friday and checked into the John Carver Inn in Plymouth. Apparently I had booked a honeymoon suite of some sort. The clue that tipped me off was the huge jacuzzi tub right at the foot of the bed. And the fireplace. My entire hall was apparently honeymoon suites, which meant that I got to lay there at night and listen to a whole lot of fuckin’. On the plus side, though, I took a really nice relaxing bath, which was probably the first one I’ve taken in 8 years. And unlike what you’ve heard, if your penis is a witch, it will still float.
Friday night, I went over to my (second) cousin Kevin’s house in Norwell for dinner. I got to see his mom Barbara (my great-aunt) again and meet his wife and both of his kids. Since we all love Transformers, his kids (my third cousins?) and I had a lot in common. We ate pizza from Kevin’s favorite pizza place (Papa Gino’s? I forgot the name already), played the Nintendo Wii, talked about movies, and had a great time. I drove back to my hotel in Plymouth, set up my computer, and did some work while I listened to fucknoises through the walls.
Saturday I was awakened at 7:15 by room service bringing breakfast which I had ordered the day before. I answered the door in my underwear, horribly scarring the 16-year old girl who delivered my food. The morning wood I was sporting probably didn’t help.
For lunch on Saturday, I had scheduled a little blogger meetup with Robin, Ed, Crystal, and Gemini. We met at the Chili’s in Bridgewater, and because I miscalculated the driving time, I was 15 minutes late. By the time I had already arrived, the orgy was done with, which was disappointing. Even so, it was good to meet people like Robin, who I’ve been reading for at least four years, her sister-in-law, and Ed and Crystal, who I’ve been reading for at least the last year. We talked about autoerotic asphyxiation and boobs and television and movies and then we streaked around the restaurant, stopping at each table to dip our naughty bits in their chips and salsa. It was a blast and I’m glad that they took the time out of their weekend to drive the distance to meet me.
Saturday night was the Cousin’s Gathering at the East Bay Grill in Plymouth. I got to spend time with my second cousins and their spouses/significant others, including Leah and Jeff, Michaela and DJ, Julianne, Dennis Jr., Michael Jr., Paul Jr., Mark Jr. and Cheryl, Brianne and Brian, Jason and Lisa, Kelly and Chris, and Brittiany and David. As you can tell, creative names do not run in my family. There’s a ton of Juniors and even a III or too, which can make it confusing if you’re trying to tell a story involving more than one of them. If Amy and I ever have a son, he will not be Adam, Jr. He will be called Thundarr.
I had a blast hanging out with the family. It was great to spend time with the side of my family that is not descended from the bogeyman. There was a ton of food, an Olympic-sized swimming pool full of booze, and plenty of great stories. I am hoping that this becomes a more regular occurrence, and maybe I can even convince some of the Learys to make the trip down to Florida next time.
Sunday morning I found out that the “Do Not Disturb” placard that you hang on the door has two sides. One side says “Do Not Disturb” and the other side asks the housekeeping staff to clean up your room immediately. I found this out when said housekeeping staff member opened my hotel room door while I was sitting in a chair naked working on the computer. Eating an omelette.
I checked out around noon and headed into Malden to pick up Julianne for lunch. She was in the middle of a move (and apparently Eliza Dushku was just filming something in her apartment complex parking lot), but she took pity on stupid old me, who had scheduled his flight for 8:30 Sunday night instead of a decent hour during the day.
After lunch, I headed to the airport. I figured that even if I was early, I could just read and nap and it would be fine. I didn’t count on one thing, though. I had to poop. For those of you who are new to Avitable.com, you should be aware that I refuse to poop in public bathrooms. I’m a naked pooper and a germaphobe, and neither of those quirks mesh well within the confines of the public shitter. I knew that it was only 2:00 PM and I was not going to be home until at least midnight. Could I hold it for 10 hours? Since I once went more than a week at summer camp without pooping, as a kid, I knew I had the strength and fortitude, but did I have the stamina now that I’m an old man?
I contemplated checking into a hotel for the 20 minutes it would take, but while I might spend money a bit frivolously at times, I decided the cost wasn’t worth it. The only alternatives were to (1) hold it and hope that we didn’t hit turbulence on the plane which would cause my sphincter to open up and shit my pants which would mean that JetBlue would ban me from traveling with them plus I would have to look at all of those people, or (2) use the bathroom at the airport which means I would have to find a handicapped stall which was kind of clean and had a sink in the stall so I could wash my hands and scrub down the toilet seat before using it and also make a barrier out of a paper towel to touch all parts of the bathroom plus I would need a hook on the back of the stall door so I could hang my shorts and did I mention it had to be clean?
I chose alternative #1. And bought some cheese to eat at a small kiosk. I slept in the airport next to a large Hispanic woman who kept speaking Spanish softly into her cell phone while tears poured down her cheeks until I wanted to tell her that Orlando wasn’t that bad and there were even tons of her kind of people there. I read a few books, including the new Jack Reacher novel, and finally I boarded my plane. The flight was uneventful, my sphincter held, and the drive home was excruciating in anticipation of the pooping that was to come. The event itself, however, was a blessed moment and I swear I heard angels sing.
In other Avita-news, because of our imminent trip to ConFab on Thursday, Britt and I have decided not to have a show tonight yet again. We will be back next week. Probably. Unless we’re too tired from the weekend.