Back home

I went home this weekend and had a very nice time with my parents. It's good to see them doing so well in the empty-nest phase of life. They're both in great shape, they're busy, they are social. Their newest project is researching possible retirement spots - this week they're headed down to beautiful Sarasota to scope it out. I have mixed feelings about this: I don't want them to leave our familial manse in McLean, yet on the other hand, if they go, I don't have to feel any guilt about not living in northern Virginia. Every time I go back I grow to resent 66 a little bit more. But the parents are great.

We went to a "Superbowl" "party" at my great-aunt's house last night. Man, was that a doozy. My 13 year-old cousin and I were the youngest people there by a good generation or two. But it was kind of fun, in that I felt like I was scoring "good son" points. My mom gave me a nice compliment, too - she said I always make people feel good about themselves. That was very touching to hear.

Oh man, my family! I love them so much. It's weird to write about them here in this acidic, caustic, sarcastic, poetic reflection of gritty Manhattan life. But I really love going back to see them, I love the fact that the four of us are all in pretty good places in our lives as individuals and as the group. The transition back is always odd - riding a subway with the professional, the old, the indigent, the lost, the hopeful. Seeing a turd on the stairways to the subway. But these are the choices we make, I guess, and it just helps you realize how good you have it.