Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The rents met the rents this last weekend.
Well, that's not entirely true. My mother and aunt met the Brit's rents this weekend.
Everyone was a bit stressed and tizzed out. And I can only really speak for myself, as family meeting family is usually a stressful and awkward affair. But look - I'm alive. Everyone is still alive.
Which means nothing went [dramatically] awry.
Except the part that I burst into tears.
It was not unlike Meet The Fockers except without foreskins being thrown into soup and an ex-CIA agent.
My aunt did mention her menopause in rather great detail at one point when we told her to stop talking over our pub food.
When we were all discussing us moving in together, I started to cry. (I blame SAD). It all came about over heated discussions on where we were looking to buy and live, and everyone getting confused about our future living arrangements.
Luckily, there was enough wine to lubricate the situation and I felt like a right arss at the end of it.
Is that a disaster? Or is it a Bridget-Jonesy-oh-God-why-is-this-bint-crying disaster?
I prefer to just ignore this and erase it from my memory banks. Fuck.
The rest of the day was spent driving around the countryside, checking out the seaside villages and forest dwellings of Hampshire and Dorset, and Brit's dad putting in a sterling effort with brochures and print-outs for my mum and aunt to take home. (Bless.)
The Brit's parents made such a lovely effort, and mine didn't embarrass me.
So all in all? I think it went well. Minus Peas and her emotions.
Someone tell me this is normal. Someone, anyone.