Next time I decide that it is a great idea to stay in Chicago an extra night after spending 8 days in India and debarking from a 16 hour flight so that I can have Passover with them, please stage an intervention. Obviously, I am on drugs and need help.
It's not that Passover or the family were bad. Or at least any worse than usual. It's just that I am so.damn.tired. When my dad picked me up from the airport, he revealed that while I was in India, Bubbe had two surgeries to fix clogged arteries. She'd been recuperating all week and my mom used her spring break to care for her. I already knew that she wasn't making Passover, but somehow this news didn't make me realize that she clearly would not be making her gefilte fish. (She was doing well since the surgeries, so I didn't worry about it.) Later in the afternoon, after foolishly not complying fully with Ray's advice to take a nap, I spent the afternoon with my bubbe and dad. I saw her new apartment, which has the most fucking amazing view of Lake Michigan. As I dazedly stared at the water and drool began seeping out of my mouth which was hanging open, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Bubbe was packing a can of gefilte fish to take to my aunt's house for our Seder. That horrible sight woke me up for a bit.
The rest of the evening went fine, except that also my digestive system had held up its end of the bargain pretty well and didn't explode on me in India, and thus is using today to catch up. And that damned canned gefilte fish. I put a teensy piece on my plate and trying to discretely sniff it.
"Are you smelling your food?" my mom asked.
She is always smelling her food, so I replied, "yeah," and stuck my nose closer to the plate. Nothing too suspicious. I took a tiny bite. Very, very wrong.
Anyway, I am both on the verge of falling asleep and shitting myself, so I'll finish with the India stuff tomorrow. Thanks for sticking through it with me.
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