thematically fickle

Tomorrow, we’re taking Ruby on her first road trip. We are going to visit my grandfather and his wife Liz, who live nestled–quite literally– into the breathtaking red rock of Southern Utah, and my mother who is flying in on her broom from Seattle (don’t worry, she’s a good witch). We’ll be staying in Las Vegas tomorrow night to break up the drive and to inhale a last dry breath of patience before descending on the No Substantive Talk Zone. I love my grandfather and his wife is okay but they’re sort of…republicans. Which sets the stage for extremely limited topics of conversation. It used to be when my grandmother was alive, she would cancel his vote with her progressive views of the world and balance could prevail. She was always the vocal one so I didn’t realize how conservative he was until he married Liz, a saucy first generation American from Mexico. She’s as equally opinionated as her predecessor but in the WRONG FRIGGIN’ DIRECTION! My mother says Liz is the only one of a gaggle of children who supports King George and that her entire family is appalled by this glaring defect.

The last time they were all here together, for Ruby’s coming home party last summer, Liz and I got into it. We didn’t get too ugly but she’d memorized the standard right-wing talking points, the sound of which rearranges my cellular structure and results in a thorough loss of composure when it comes to my ability to conduct an indoor-voice conversation. She talked about patriotism and my lack of it, how much better off we are without Sadaam, how people of Iraq are free now, and how we “really don’t know that Sadaam didn’t have anything to do with 9-11″. This rant culminated in the crown jewel and my personal favorite, how it’s all Clinton’s fault. I like to think of it as the Old Faithful of Right Wing Debate Tactics: when there is no truth on your side, bring up Clinton. Nevermind that if Clinton did an ounce of what That Squatter Living In 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is doing, he’d be hoisted up the White House flag pole by his testicles. During this slightly electrified conversation, my mother washed dishes (or perhaps cooked something bland and white) in the kitchen, effectively transporting herself thousands of miles away to a beach in Zihuatanejo, Sam layed out a few well-reasoned, calm yet sharp retorts in an effort to better convey my incoherent debunking and my grandfather sat quietly as he absorbed both sides of the argument. Overall the air was thick and angry and pretty much everyone was uncomfortable, except Ruby, who was sleeping smartly through it all, minding her own business, trying to grow.

A part of me, the grown-up, human, compassionate part of me, the part I would like to emulate for Ruby, wishes to avoid imitation of this incident during our Memorial Day weekend. But the impish, teenager part of me wants to intentionally tear open this familial political scab even though I know it would serve no purpose. With politics being such a large part of my life and Sam’s life too, we don’t go a single day without 19 conversations about the political landscape in this country and the implications of current policy on our famiy, this country and the world. To imagine lasting three days without some mention of…oh…pick ANY issue…domestic spying, for instance, is frankly, unimaginable. We watch CSPAN, for God’s sake, as our reality television and I’ll probably have a coronary if I can’t slam our DICKtator at least once a day.

So until this afternoon, I’d been trying to decide exactly which inflammatory tee I would wear for our arrival. Instead, I’ve decided that the IMPEACH sticker on my car will suffice. Afterall, the car will be parked in front of their home for three days where they’ll have to face the ugly truth. Really though, I’m going to put on my I’m-an-almost-36-year-old-mom costume, take the high road and not incite a riot at the home of my grandparents. I will be polite and try to stay the course with conversations about cotton candy, vanilla ice cream and our favorite little gemstone. However, as I warned my mother during a recent phone conversation when she politely expressed her wish to remain neutral and avoid conflict (insinuating that I should do the same), I refuse to shrink when the conversation shifts to the dubious right. I hope she has some good recipes with her.