This afternoon I turned the television on to find an episode of Sex and the City. I've hardly watched but a few episodes of this show, being in a position as far as possible from the fashionable men-hopping NYC friends of Ms. Bradshaw, but I do think we have one thing in common: I have also been on a horrible, horrendous meet-the-family weekend date.
So for your amusement, here is probably the worst introduction to a significant other's family. You're welcome.
My ex and I had been miserably dating for roughly a year, and he decided it was time I met his mother and two sisters. I didn't want to meet his mother, she had already made it very clear that he should've stayed with his previous girlfriend since she had paid for everything in the relationship. I didn't. He's a big boy he can pay for his own sh*t. This was going to be a very good time, I could feel it.
It started out as an 8 hour drive to Rock Springs, Wyoming. It was hot, and the air conditioner in my little car has never been it's big selling point. Halfway through the trip we somehow got into an argument about the health benefits of running. He thought it was extremely harmful to one's health because, and I quote, "The heart rubs up against the rib cage, wearing it out." There's really no way to argue with that.
No really, I tried, there's no way.
It was a long drive.
We arrived at a hotel. I thought we were staying with his mom, but this got my hopes up as I preferred to see her as little as possible. But when we walked in I learned the hard way: she lived in the hotel. We were staying with her, in her one bedroom one bathroom room. All the vents in the room were covered with duct tape because she was a chain smoker, and the hotel owner slept in the room above her and could smell the smoke. I started coughing the second I walked in.
So there were 5 of us all together, him (we'll call him...Pen Cildick), his 2 sisters, his mom and me. We started with the usual chit-chat, how was the drive...good, good...real hot out today...sure is...scored some cocaine an hour ago...oh that's nice...wait, what?
12:30 a.m - The phone rings. I answer.
"Yes this is so-and-so (the owner of the bar) and these two are tearing this place apart, either come and get them or I'm calling the cops."
"I'll be right there."
We (me and his little sister, who was the only one from Rock Springs who knew where the bar was) get there to find it's really only a gas station with 3 bar stools in the back. The actual space designated for drinking was hardly bigger than a public restroom. When we were 10 feet from the door, Pen bursts through it, throwing himself onto the hood of the pickup out front. "We're driving!" he shouts. "No," I reply, "we're walking. We didn't bring the car." "We're walking!" he screams at me, as he flips me the bird. But he can't walk. He can't stand up. He leans on me, bringing me to my knees. I finally figure out how to balance his weight with mine and we start taking one small step toward the hotel room. They were right, it's a straight shot from the hotel to the bar.
"That's mine, that's mine, that's mine..." he points to piles of puke outside the bar. "That's mine too. Oh and that one.." Fantastic. Behind me, I can hear his little sister trying to keep his mom turned in the right direction toward the hotel room, but she has to stop and pee, and there's a garbage can right there. How convenient.
A cop drives by. He pulls over. Of course.
He's 6'8" easy, and stands in front of Pen. Pen is laughing. "Is there really a cop standing in front of me?" he giggles. "Yup." "He's so big! Are you sure he's real?" He motions to the cop with his head in that drunk I-think-I'm-being-sneaky way that cops probably see all the time. "Yeah he's real."
He asks for our ID's. Pen doesn't have his. I don't have mine either. "I wasn't drinking," I explain. "I didn't think I needed it to go get these two. We just live right there." I point to the hotel. "Room number?" He asks. "Oh I have no idea, " I reply. "We're just staying the weekend." We go in circles. He doesn't believe that I wouldn't know the room number we're actually staying in. The room number that two people are living in. My frustration is growing.
Pen in trying to dance. I can see the hotel, we're so close.
They surround Pen, invading his dance bubble. I could hear his mom screaming at them, claiming she wanted a cigarette but one of them had stolen her lighter. That sounded logical.
Finally, one of the cops agrees to let me take Pen home while they question his mother. I struggle to walk him the rest of the way to the hotel, but I don't know which room number is ours, so I drop him off in front and decide I'll figure it out later. Bad idea. After I start heading back, I hear BAM! BAM! BAM!
I turn around and see him going door-to-door, banging on every one. Soon people were coming out into the street. They're angry. Pen is singing. A few cops run over to him, put him in handcuffs and sit him down on the ground. People are asking questions. His mom is yelling. Pen switches from singing to screaming, shouting and crying so they put him in the back of a cop car.
To sum it all up, they let them both go, but I had to deal with both of them being sick, belligerent, and smoking in the hotel room all night. Both him and his mother were completely hungover (read = total a**holes) the rest of the weekend, which meant they wanted to sleep all day in the hotel room. So that was fun. We headed home and he asked if I liked his mom.
Is it any wonder we eventually broke up?