I am prepared for the worst, but hope for the best.
Damn it, here I thought I invented that. But I googled my phrase and it seems someone else said it. Bother. It’s always been my phrase.
I’m not sure of Mom’s psychology on this shit but she was always blowing up her expectations. She thought when my half-brother and his wife took her to an 18th century coach inn it would have crystal chandeliers. The woman was dumb, daft and delusional. It’s a bloody coaching inn for travelers, travels in the 18th century was dirty and tiring. Hell no it wouldn’t have chandeliers. They would be bloody lucky to have furniture after a good brawl. She was so disappointed and the food wasn’t very good to quote her. Those two idiots assume that everyone is just like them so anyone would love what they loved. They didn’t know my mother at all. Taking me there would have been a better choice. I like history. I would have spun stories in my head the whole time and been totally delighted. Morons. All of them. Annoying as all get out too.
Every family reunion we have is exactly what I expect it to be. Not only is it All It’s Cracked Up to Be, it’s totally cracked. My idiot half-brother wonders why no one comes to the reunions he has any more. I feel like yelling “BECAUSE WE DO NOT LIKE EACH OTHER ENOUGH TO BE AROUND EACH OTHER.” We don’t. JC on a half shell… We don’t. You see what I think about the idiot every time I write about him. The last time I saw him in a store in the 20th century, I gave the other half a push and told him to walk faster. Called to idiot that I had to go to the bathroom and vanished. That should be a hint someone doesn’t want to see you or talk to you ever again.
Family reunions are a bunch of “my kid is doing better than you.” and “Who Daddy loved best”, well, not the “Who Daddy loved best” any more because the old farts are all dead except one of them but she brings enough craziness to make up for the loss of the rest. I’ve written about Aunt Edna. I can tell you that a psychologist could get a PhD out of my family. Every last egg is cracked in that carton. Okay, I’ll take it back, there are a couple nice ones but they stand out like a Faberge egg stuck in carton of Cadbury’s. Reunions are always fighting, getting pissed off or on and then rambling for weeks about how so and so did this and that. God. I hate them. My mother’s family is cracked.
It’s getting better. We no longer see each other. We are becoming strangers. My cousins grand kids are strangers to us all and it’s a good thing. The family is toxic. We really do hate each other. I joke that my half-brother would steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes as long as he was related to him. It’s accurate and not a joke. He would.
My expectations are always for the worst. I am always pleasantly surprised when they turn out not to be what I expected. So far I’m batting about 96.789% on expectations. Pathetic isn’t it? One would expect the world to put it’s best foot forward but taking a look at the state of the Union and our leaders, pretty much standard fare.