On Spring Break in Whistler at the age of 30 with my Parents, or, What is Happening to Me? – Day 2

What follows is an account of my 8-day spring break vacation, spent at the ski resort Whistler/Blackcomb in British Columbia, Canada. It’s just me and my parents. I am 30 years old. Single. Depressed. God rapes us in mysterious ways.

For those of you who may know me and my parents, I must say, I do not hate or despise them. These are simply observations intended for humor and I appreciate them as people and certainly love them as my parents. That said, they’re crazy.

Day 2

I am not going to go skiing today. I have to finish this bibliography for a class about Medieval times. Which, speaking of, I contemplated going to Medieval Times on Friday night. Like seriously contemplated it. I was on my way to Orlando (my flight left early Saturday morning so I stayed at a hotel airport on Friday night) when I saw a billboard ad for Medieval Times. Only $29.99 for a dinner and a show. And I hear you get a whole half a chicken and all you can drink Coke. Plus a show. For a brief moment it seemed worth it. I lie. For two hours it seemed worth it and for the last 30 minutes of those two hours I actually regretted not going. I lie. I still regret it. KFC is not a good substitute for Medieval Times. Though that chicken tastes like it could be from medieval times, heh, you know what I’m sayin’. [you're supposed to read that in Rodney Dangerfield's voice]

I’m in Starbuck’s. There are a lot babies around. And a lot of mothers wearing their hair in pigtails underneath ski hats. This is a huge turn on for me. The pigtails under ski hats, not babies. Or mothers. I don’t have a MILF fetish. I read Freud for school, so no, I’m terrified of that shit. But pigtails? Yes. Ski caps? Yes. Both? YES! I have this unreasonable expectation that an attractive woman in pigtails and ski cap should come up to me and ask me what sort of incredibly interesting book I’m reading. Did I mention I’m single and in a slump? All the women in this Starbucks are married.

I meet my parents for lunch. They let me know where to meet them by talking at me through the phone.

Me: Hello?

Them: Hello? (If you call some one, you shouldn’t respond to their hello with a hello that also sounds like a confused question. Your hello should be declarative, if not imperative.)

Me: Yes.

Them: Where are you?

Me: Star–

Them: We’re going to lunch? Are you hungry?

Me: Yes. Where are–

Them: Are you at Starbucks?

Me: Yes.

Them: We don’t see you here at Starbucks.

Me: I’m at another one, further away from the hotel.

Them: There must be another Starbucks. Are there two Starbucks?

Me: Yes. [sigh] Where are you going–

Them: We just walked into that tapas place next to the Starbucks. Are you hungry? If you’re hungry you can come join us.

Me: Ok. I’ll be there in–

Them: Do you know where it is? It’s by the Starbucks. There’s a lot of Indian people at the Starbucks for some reason.

Me: I’m coming.

I order a Bloody Mary. Our server is from New Zealand, but my parents mistake her accent for South African. My parents are South African. My mother’s explanation for her mistake is that South African’s say “yah” and apparently our server says “yah” a lot. I’m pretty sure a lot of people say “yah” including Canadians, Australians, Germans and just about any other person in the world. I chug the rest of my Bloody Mary but decide not to have another as to avoid judgments about my alcohol intake at lunchtime.

Back at the room I continue working on my bibliography while my mother complains to the front desk that there is no where in the shower to put the soap and shampoo except on the floor. She is afraid that the soap will collect germs. My father explains to her that germs/bacteria cannot grow on soap, but my mother doesn’t buy it. She convinces the hotel to buy a shower caddy. She waits for me and my father to thank her profusely, but we pretend like nothing happened. She will later accuse us of hating her and being weird for not caring about putting the soap and shampoo on the floor of the shower. But that is 24 hours from now. We must let it steep.

My parents and I decide to watch the Academy Awards and order pizza. This becomes a fiasco when we find out it’s going to take 1 hour for the pizza to be delivered. For some reason this is unacceptable to my mother, though it often takes up to 45 minutes back home. It’s also unreasonable for my father and me to walk five minutes to pick it up. So instead we order pizza from a place that charges $25 for a large pizza. Ours arrives burnt. But we don’t complain.

I hate watching movies with my parents. They complain about the swearing and violence claiming that it’s not necessary to get the point across. Which is whatever, because what actually bothers me is not this sentiment but how they express it. With sighs, grunts, sucking of teeth, and utterances such as “really,” “come on,” “that’s not necessary.” But watching the Oscars is 1001 times worse. Everyone is either too fat or too skinny or too ugly. As if they have complete control over these things. Other nonsensical comments abound:

“I can’t stand anything with singing and dancing in it.”

“Is he gay? He looks gay?

“Where are all the black people?”

“I bet he’s a Jew. He’s gotta be. I mean they all are.”

“Where’s Jerry Lewis? I thought you said Jerry Lewis was going to be there.”

“Why don’t they speak English?”

“There are too many commercials.”

“Why are there so many awards? Really, this show doesn’t need to be more than 30 minutes long.”

“I don’t even know half these movies. Why don’t they show these movies in the theater now. None of them are showing. How are we supposed to know about them.”

This last comment actually does make sense. It makes a lot of sense. Theaters should have second runnings of at least the Best Picture nominees in the couple weeks before the Oscars. They would make bank.

The Hurt Locker is awarded Best Picture. My mother announces her disgust, “Why did that movie win? I didn’t even see it.” My father snores. I go to bed.

Tags: Academy Awards, parents, Spring Break, the hurt locker, Whistler

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