Soppho

A couple of week ago, I took a vacation to my home state of Connecticut and took Y Chromosome with me. It was one of a handful of journeys in his life to the strange and foreign lands above the Mason-Dixon line, and his first venture involving the state in which the CT wasn’t just a longer-to-get-through-than-it-looks to pass through.

As a good southern gentleman in a foreign land, Y chromosome knows all of the right moves, and wouldn’t you know it, these Yankee women eat it right up. The right moves, like most well-executed moves, involve copious amounts of booze. My mother, of course, is the easiest. Y chrome sets down in front of my mom a box of the hard apple cider his family makes on their farm, and Mom throws her arms around him and exclaims, “Son!” Thank God my first boyfriend’s family didn’t own a Vodka distillery, or I probably would have been subject to an arranged marriage at the ripe old age of 15. That’s MRS. Ketel One to you, THANKS.

Unfortunately, my little brother is a teetotaler, and not so easily won over, but all-in-all, more entertaining.

I called the little brother a few weeks ago to wish him a happy 15th birthday. For the entire 15 minute conversation I thought for sure I had the wrong number and the man on the other end of the phone was playing along and putting me on. Not only does he now have a deep baratone-leaning voice, but he converses like a grown-up. As an Aspie, for years conversations would end like this: “Well, I’ve run out of things to say. I love you. Bye!” *click*

This visit was the first time I’ve seen him in person since Christmas. Even then, when I slipped on his sneakers to go shovel snow with my mom, I felt like I was walking around with kiyaks on my feet. Now when I go to look him in the eye I discover that I am not, in fact looking at his eyes, but his chin, and OH MY GOD, IS THAT FACIAL HAIR?

It is almost comforting to know, though, that some things never change. Y Chromosome and I were staying in my Mom’s den, which is right next to the kitchen and doesn’t have a door on it. In the morning, I could hear my brother tip toeing into the kitchen, sloooowly opening the cabinets and the refrigerator, gingerly placing his lunch on the table, and then, “MOM, DO I HAVE TO FEED THE CAT? MOM? MOOOOOOM?”

Well, it was a nice effort, anyway.

Y Chrome takes him nicely in stride, though perhaps slightly less generously when his nap time is interrupted. The brother and his friend were having a Pokemon duel in the next room over while we were dozing off, when all of a sudden the boys started chanting the name of one of the Pokemon.

“DROWSYYYYY! DROOOOWWWWWSSSSYYYY! DROOOOOWWWWWWWSSSSSYYYYYY!”

“Yeah,” drawls Y Chrome, pulling a pillow over his head, “I’m tired of something, too.”

Since most of my visits entail visiting people and, more often than not attending a wedding, I’ve never really determined if there’s anything good to do in the state (but if you have any questions about weddings and wedding venues in the state, from the perspective of a seasoned guest, am I ever your girl), so Y Chrome and I were touristy together. We went to UConn to pet the horses, buy my very first school sweatshirt and, most notably, get softball-sized mounds of ice cream stacked on teeny tiny waffle cones at the dairy bar. We also drove down to the aquarium:

and strolled through Mystic Village and ate grilled cheese, and, well, yeah okay, that was it. But, seriously? Right there we’ve hit half of the non-casino-based attractions in the state. Go team!

The rest of the visit was pretty much occupied with eating far and away too much and meeting up with my friends. We had challah french toast with the fabulous Gina, Italian food and pomegranate milkshakes with a dear high school friend and her husband, and dinner and ice cream by the beach with my college friends.

The latter group had mercy on me and refrained from spending the evening trying to get Y Chrome to say certain things, just to hear his accent, as they had previously threatened (I NEVER do this. Never. No siree. Innocent little moi? Certainly not.).

In fact, I think they rather liked him, as they kept threatening to keep Y Chrome and send me back to Virginia on my own. But, to be fair, I’m pretty sure they’ve been trying to be rid of me permanently for years now. My first clue was when, years back, they said the very same thing about a pile of dog poo sitting next to me on the sidewalk. And then, to drive the point home, they scooped it up in their arms and lovingly caressed it while I jealously looked on. Oh, how that memory sends me back to when I was two and my little sister was born.

(Have I mentioned recently what a fantastic little sister I have? One who, as a fellow writer, understands the occasional need for hyperbole at a sibling’s expense? WITHOUT ANY HARD FEELINGS AT ALL.)

Up next (and by “next” I mean “eventually, perhaps”): a trip to Y Chromosome’s hometown, Podunkalicious, North Carolina, in which I discover that no one in the South will find anything I attempt to pass off as Northern Charm as something remotely charming. And then I will instead overshoot greatly and don a hoop skirt and parasol. I do declare.