2003-01-13

I managed to survive the grandparents brunch. My sister and her husband were also in attendance, also concerned about their fair share. Well, not really. I think that my sibling and I are the only grandchildren that are actually liked. Still, I had to dress as if for work and drive all the way out to Walnut Creek, wait idly at the security gate while the Grandparents were called, and then admonished to only park in visitor parking. Unlike the rest homes, these retirement communities treat anyone below the age of 60 with derision and suspicion. I�m wandering the carefully manicured and artfully sloped walkways in a white collard shirt with a navy blue sweater and gray slacks (all from Banana Republic) and I�m eyed with suspicion by the residents I pass, my youth and vitality no doubt an affront to their secular lifestyle. (Yes, I know that it means earthly rather than spiritually but it works, it just does) I�m sure that my license plate number is recorded somewhere, and my time and movements tracked by the elderly around me. I�m not, in general a paranoid person, but they make me so. And so, I arrived at their �residence� a lovely condo style apartment with a view of Mt Diablo that is absolutely breathtaking, especially on Sunday morning. Clouds later came in to obstruct the view and the wind picked up so we had to move from the long porch to the dining room, but still, it was nice while it lasted. My grandfather affects a rather jocular ambiance that makes it seem as if he is a free spirited type of guy, but in actuality one must always agree with him, his politics, and his superiority or risk his rath. My grandmother plays the part of a beleaguered companion, putting up with it all, when in fact I have seen her be a complete harridan for no reason. Our midday passed without incident however. I fiddled with the stereo and the computer, since I�m �mechanical� and was good naturedly chided for not having a girlfriend. My sisters� husband was basically ignored. He doesn�t have our pedigree, and though from a wealthy home and being really a nice guy, is treated as though he is an outsider. My own parents love him to death, and we are all glad that he balances my sister out. Before him we were all certain she would end up just like Grandmother. Lucky for all of us, she�s not there yet. Since these are my father�s parents, there is no talk of my mother, or her family, which lives over the hill in San Francisco. I don�t think I�ve painted them in a very good light. Actually, I haven�t. Its� very hard for me to, because they embarrass and shock me so, with their insulated worldview and casual bigotry that is common of their generation. I hope that it goes with them. I do love them, and am glad that they live with likeminded people, looking down on the valley below their gated community with condescending eyes, no doubt a little fearful of the changes that are taking place. Except where they are. The golf carts that give them the illusion of mobility, the activities and tours they take, all with like minded people that don�t challenge them. The world have changed so much in just their lifetimes that it�s understandable. It doesn�t make it right, but it allows for compassion. It�s simple to love them, I just wish I could LIKE them. Anyway, dazed from the sheer artiface of the afternoon, I agreed to go with my Sister to IKEA, as they were thinking of a new Sofa. It seems that IKEA is having a sale, and that sale ended on Sunday. And so the largest massing of people I have ever set eyes on had converged on that giant blue and yellow box. It was crazy. It took and hour for us to get out of there. And we didn�t even look at couches; there was nothing but massed bodies attempting to get their cheap Scandinavian furniture. At one point the press of bodies in the aisle, and I�m not kidding, was just like leaving a concert. Afterwards I felt exhausted and drained and craving the solitude available in my car on the drive home. All three of us were a bit shaken by the experience. I�m sorry, but no 50 bucks off a $200 sofa is worth that. I may never go to IKEA again.

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