So About My Family [Briefly]....

I spent the weekend before last in my hometown of New Jersey, for quality time with the aforementioned fam. It was dad's surprise 50th, so there was an immediacy to this visit (don't want you to think I'm going all soft.)

Well really, I just needed a haircut, but the family was there, so I figured, what the hey - might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Like most family functions, my father's thirteen Stromberg siblings and boyhood pals decided twas best to use this celebration to roast all 50 years of his wonderful memories. I was also chosen to write  a roast speech. When my Uncle Robby, the organizer of these shenanigans, first proposed this, it was September. By the time I arrived in October, I still had nothing written.

Frantically nearing the hour of truth, after driving around crazily like a Jersey housewife on steroids, dragging my victims (er, guests) for the night, Josh and Cara, through confusing U-turns and overpriced Halloween stores with costumes like "Money Ho," "the Blow-Me Breathalizer" and "Testey Tea Bags" (we're really not trying to overcome stereotypes in Jersey, it seems), I finally came to a realization:

I needed to write this freakin' speech.
(Even if my audience would be mostly intoxicated by then.)

So I did what any normal twenty-something would do in this situation - I winged it improvised. Using a previous blog entry, and sketches drawn by my sister, I put together what I thought was a lovely summary of dad's life.........of pain.

Surprisingly, for such little preparation it drew quite a bit of laughs (story of my life.) And coming from the Strombergs and one Joshua Goolsby ("sarcasm extraordinaire"), this is saying a lot.

After a lovely experience of living at home again for two days amongst the Strombergians, I've realized that I haven't described my incredibly unique family members to all of the folks out there who probably don't give a damn. Why goodness, in order to understand the Strombergs, you must take a close look at the dynamics! We are a highly complex system, that has a massive weekly intake of 2% milk. And the best way to observe this rare species of American family at its peak of dysfunctionality is in their natural habitat.

*DISCLAIMER: Since I know they're reading this right now, jaws agape at the sheer audacity of the use of "dysfunction" to describe them, please realize: there are no families that exist without dysfunction, at the risk of being incredibly boring.

∆ Mom

Aside from inspiring my love of books, you may remember her from previous flashback entries concerning shitty cars. She was my first impromptu guest blogger....albeit without consent.

• Childhood Revisited...Again
• Wedding Bell Blues
• Mom Speaks of the Curse!

∆ Dad

Alas, you've had your days in the spotlight already. As well as here.

• The Stromberg Family Car Curse
• Wedding Bell Blues

∆ Nick, brother
For his last birthday, I devoted a blog entry to my little brother, praising his eccentricity. That's enough, right?

• Cinco de Birthday

∆ Ceri, sister
Her psychologically-fused drawings of sarcasm have shown up in this entry, as well as my previous one highlighting our quirks of humor.

• Insult to Injury

[NOTE: I realize that this has turned into a "Greatest Hits" list rather than a for reals blog entry.........I got lazy.]

∆ Lili, sister, &; Lexy, dog

There's a reason I've lumped these two together; obviously they're not equal on the totem pole of family hierarchy (one crawls on the floor for godsakes; although I guess you could argue that they both did at one time.)

When Lili was born, I was 14 years old and Lexy was closing in on middle age. I acted as mommy and Lexy, well, acted like a dog, as expected, as well as her counterpart. She was there to guard against ghosts in the dark and provide entertainment for the new baby. (Their trust was tested when Lexy decided to leave a nervous trail of poop all over her room; there were a few months of uncertainty, but eventually the deed was forgotten, once the smell wore off.)

Lili also provided her own entertainment, as she was the first to be caught on the family's new video camera. Even though she's grown to 10 years old now, I can still remember the cartoon-ish adventures of the two of them, which eventually inspired me to capture their sweet yet short adventure in baby/puppy-dom....

Lexy, with her two quirky ears: one Collie, one Doberman.
Lili, with her beloved stuffed pal, Fishy - a somewhat preschool Calvin and Hobbes, if you will.  

(Fishy once braved an 8 floor plummet through an elevator shaft in my old NYU dorm. Somehow he fit perfectly lengthwise through when dropped; poor Lili proceeded to scream uncontrollably. Those in the elevator with us were quite unsure of what to do. Luckily, NYU was able to retrieve Fishy, showing how persistent a stuffed fish - and an NYU janitor for that matter - could be.)

No matter how old they get - Lexy, with her arthritis and deaf ears; and Lili, with her Justin Bieber and Bratz dolls - I'll always choose to remember them this way.

‽

Insult to Injury

I'll be the first to admit that when I blog about my family, it's usually tinged with sarcasm. How awful you must think me to be. Don't I think of my poor mother‽

Of course I do. Where do you think the sarcasm comes from?

In our home, sarcasm was the #1 coping mechanism. Our family has been through some unusual unpleasant experiences; however, nothing that can't be cured by good ol' sardonic aplomb. Give us a glass half-empty, and we'll see it as such; and then we'll fill it with beer and suck it down. Cause we figure you might as well drink it up, and toast to the irony.

And while my mom was the first to point out the facts in my blog about family car woes, she did it with the hilariously flippant cynicism of a champ. You see, I learn from the best. That said, it's not surprising that I write to express myself (and that my early dream was, in fact, to become a comedian.)

My siblings are no different. Creativity by way of self-deprecation is the way to go. Our work is almost always reflexive.

Another fun fact about my family: we are accident prone. This is most definitely a Stromberg trait. I could go on and on about this one, but I'll save it for another day. For now, I'd like to use it in context with my recent situation...

As I was [finally] leaving the hospital a few weeks ago (I know, the suspense must be killing you by now - explanations to come later), my sister, Ceri, was on her way to a hospital, via ambulance. This is her first year at Savannah College of Art and Design. I suppose that the only way to celebrate this wonderful opportunity was to do so in the Stromberg tradition: accidental, self-inflicted injury.

It was a deep cut, but only to her finger. Conveniently enough it was during an attempt to cut a bagel.  All she was trying to do was eat. By 4am she was glued up and sent back to school with another scar to add to her collection. The perfect college initiation, by way of bagel. (Jewish joke anyone? Anny-body?....)

The most amusing part about this story is that it was in no way surprising to the family. Upsetting? Yes. Stressful? Most definitely. Inevitable? Of course; and thus, pretty hilarious.

Now, before you decide I'm quite possibly the worst sister in the world, I must remind you of the nature of my family. Instead of being bitter, Ceri takes it all in stride, by using her injuries to fuel her creative musings. It's a running gag that both she and my father (most likely the giver of the accident gene) have racked up a long line of ridiculous impairments. And since she has an artistic gift, Ceri decides to document them:

Since then, there has also been the Bagel incident, as well as the Bowl incident, which occurred when a glass bowl exploded over an open flame in Home Ec, sending shatters of glass into her arm. Ironically, the scars look suspiciously like the result of some retardly botched suicide attempt.

This constant barrage of bad luck, though it sucks terribly at the time, is just another Stromberg oddity. We're so used to it by now that it's almost a given that something will almost always go wrong when you least expect it. And, conversely, something incredibly right must follow. This irony is reflected in much of my writing - it's at once a curse and a blessing; the mark of my namesake.

The fact that my sister is also using it to her artistic advantage, is deserving of applause. I believe her most recent work says it best:

 

Check out Ceri's other works below. (And please buy her merchandise to fund her future hospital bills):

• Official Corrsolla Robot Website
• Deviant Art
• Facebook 

‽

Cinco de Birthday: Rybotz & Nickyness

It's been a year since my last celebration with Ryan on his special joint Cinco de Maya/birthday. This year it's his 25th (quarter-life crisis time!....don't worry it only gets better from here, so I've heard.) It is also the week of my brother's birthday; he turned 20 this passed Sunday.

That's why I think it's only fitting to celebrate their many splendiferous years of living with a blog entry dedicated to two of the most important men in my life: one I know very well, and one that perhaps....I don't. You'd be surprised which one is which.

Ryan (aka Rybotz) is from Ohio, but contrary to what you might think, not nearly as boring as his birthplace. It's impossible to describe him in words. You just have to meet him to know that you're getting someone that has neon bolts of creativity bursting out of his ears. For the most part, experiencing the eclectic sounds of music fuels this phenomenon. But that's only the surface of his admiration for artful, imaginative things.

Like the rubber city of his roots, he is hard-working and reliable, but always in pursuit of a grander goal. We've been together 2 years now, and every day has been an individual struggle that we've tried to support one another through. The city has not been easy to his mid-western lifestyle: here it's fast, fleeting; blink one eye, and you miss it all. Everything in NYC is done on a larger scale; bigger/bolder/better. Luckily everything about Ryan is bigger and bolder. His excitement is catching to everyone around him, but on low days, so are feelings of anger and frustration.

Ryan left Ohio to be a part of the energy of this city, and he is surely becoming part of it. One day, he will be in sync with this flow of passion and creativity, and really show the world what fantastic possiblities lie within the infinite universe that is his mind.

And all psychological theory aside, I am grateful to be by his side on his 25th year, as he experiences the most memorable, unpredictable and thrilling moments of his life.

Happy Birthday my Rybotz. You are just as amazing as you are sweet. <3

My brother Nick (or Nicky, which is what I've always called him) has come a long way from the little bald baby that once peed on my cousin when she was changing him. It makes you feel rather old and confused when you see the same boy you used to play Micro Machines and Barbie Prom Date with (...it's true. Don't judge. Who didn't love Barbie? Even he got upset about ending up with the nerdy guy...), doing adult things: driving a car instead of pretending to blow one up.....working at Sears instead of perfecting his homemade sound effect technique.....dying his once light, wavy hair to the color aquamarine.....complaining about getting car tickets and bank statements rather than imagining that you've saved your family from a man-eating tiger while trapped in a raging fire.

Nick was always laughing; he once had a giggling fit after watching the Simpson's episode where Homer falls down a cliff for an absurdly extended period of time, yelling "Doh" at every moment of contact. He could hardly breathe, he was laughing so hard. Then he rewound the tape and watched it again.

At the age of 4, Nick would beg me to put on the Fantasia VHS and fast-forward through all the fairy stuff to get to the dinosaurs and their eventual demise to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." It gave me the creeps, but it never phased him. He watched Jurassic Park for the first time at age 6, while I hid in my parent's bedroom, trying to block out the sounds of velociraptors.

He could make any inanimate object explode with unidentifiable sounds. He engrossed himself in a small 1x4 Lego block for hours, making it emit spitful explosive sounds as he shook it within his hands. Who knows what kind of intergalactic war was being staged within his imaginative mind.

But most of all, Nicky was the sweetest, most gentle kid brother a girl could ask for. While other boys were tearing the heads off their sister's dolls and generally wreaking havoc, Nicky was eager to play with anyone at any time, and loved to make people laugh. His younger sisters were the rambunctious ones, and he took a lot of abuse from their rough housing and tantrums. But that was Nicky's way; he couldn't stand to see anyone upset. He just wanted to feel he belonged.

Today, Nick is in college, but still living at home. I know it must be hard still dealing with the craziness of sisters, shitty family cars and living in a town you can't seem to escape. It's enough to make anyone a little irritated. But I hope that even at 20, little Nicky is still there at heart.

Happy Birthday Nicky-ness Maximilian Eggward Whites Yolken Midori-Ximus.

FLASHBACK FRIDAY!: Wedding Bell Blues

For my ongoing theme of planes, trains and automobiles within the history of the Strombergs, below is my mother's romantic recollection of her memorable wedding to my father, 24 years ago. It is a tale of Newark hitchhiking, creepy Poconos hotels, death-defying leaps, and the quirky beginning to our family.

*[My wisdom-infused comments in italicized brackets...to shed a modern light.]

Then night before the wedding, I traveled from Brooklyn to the then unknown [to me] territory of Newark, New Jersey to pick up Aunt Nancy from the airport. At the time I drove a 1 year old Hyundai. The plane was delayed and the terminal of arrival was changed, so sometime after midnight after riding around to find the other terminal (Newark was small and its terminals and roads not well indicated back then) I picked up Aunt Nancy, started home and probably due to the late hour or my stress level or poor driving I bottomed out on a raised concrete fork in the road where there was some road construction.

So there we were, trying to flag down some help in Newark, NJ, after midnight (remember no cell phones back then; three women, alone - one with bright red hair - in Newark). A noisy, battered-up, suspicious looking car pulled up to help, immediately followed by a much nicer sedan that pulled up to the side of the creepy car exchanged some words, and the creepy car drove off. Three off-duty policeman came out of the sedan to offer there help (lucky us).

They asked if I lived nearby. Nope, of course; I was from Brooklyn. "Can your Dad or Mon come and get you?" Nope, no Dad, and Mom doesn't drive. [Mom was only 25 at the time.] I explained the circumstances: I'm getting married in a few hours. My fiancee is out with his buddies (again the era of no cell phones).

Little did I know Dad was out with Uncle Robbie jumping off the Highlands Bridge at the time! [I guess this was their idea of a bachelor party. For his wedding, he had some nice barnacle-ravaged hands.]

Anyway, the very kind policeman helped calm me down (I was pretty upset) and took my bridesmaids to dinner, while one of them took me to rent a car and vouch for me (at the time a driver under the age of 25 could usually not rent a car). I rented a car, picked up the girls at dinner, and drove home to Brooklyn. Only about 6-7 hours left.

I showed up at my wedding in great rented car (Dad though it was wedding surprise ha ha.) We took the car to our honeymoon in the Poconos. We were traveling late at night in the fog and stopped for directions (remember no google maps, no cell phones...)
[Yes mom, I understand, we have it SO much better nowadays.]

We ended up at a deserted hotel in the process of construction (it looked finished). The doores opened when we entered, whereupon a security guard came up and asked us if we saw Joe (don't actually remember the name he asked). He didn't ask who we were or why we were there in an emplty lobby after midnight. We asked about lodgings, he said the hotel had not opened yet (eerily, we got in with no problem) He suggested a boarding house at the end of the main street, we thanked him. He seemed worried about Joe and took off looking for him. This gave us the creeps and Dad and I quickly returned to our rented car and headed toward a major highway.

Never knew what that whole thing was about. Sounds too much like film noir or Twilight Zone.

On the way home from the honeymoon while traveling through NYC, I needed to stop for gas and got off the FDR drive in Manhattan. After getting gas and looking for the entrance back onto the FDR drive through some side streets, a man ran out between two parked cars to catch a bus, running right into the passenger side of my car, striking the passenger windshield and side window. It was horribly frightening. The man had a huge bump on his forehead, like in the cartoons; it grew as we were tending to him. There was a hospital riight across the street, where he was treated.
He was released that day.
Ominous happenings, eh?
We got married anyway...with success."

As always with the Strombergs, even through the craziest of shenanigans, things tend to work out. Like me, for instance.

.....Although, I suppose this is open to interpretation.

3/23 Update
And just for the record, here is come clarification from my dad:

"The car was a Renault Alliance not a Hyundai...The Hyundai, I totaled running into a toilet bowl after going through the front of a house on Union Ave."

Thanks for clearing that up, dad.......Wait-what?

RE: Flashback Friday: Mom Speaks of the Curse!

After sharing with you all on Friday my family's long heritage of car woes, I was blessed with a wonderful reply.....from my mom.

She left it on my Facebook page using dad's login. At first I thought I was in the doghouse (sorry ma; I could have sworn we were running someone over in a fit of maternal emotion!.....Perhaps, being an imaginative child, I was just making up a more exciting story in my mind); but Mommy Stromberg just wanted to clarify a few things, for the record:

"I never almost ran ANYONE over. That car got a flat tire on the belt Parkway in Brookyn with grandma, Aunt Sis, and Uncle Artie and you in the car. I was about 8 months pregnant. I pulled the car over to the shoulder of the Belt Parkway with light snow falling and me, 8 months pregnant, trying to flag down some help. With no luck. After about 30 minutes with no aid at about 12 midnight, I decided to ride on the flat to the exit ramp to the nearest gas station. It was late and the gas attendant would not let us put the car in the garage, as there was no one at this late hour to help. He said leave the car over night and the garage people will attend to it in the morning. We went to grandma's house (by car sevice) and called dad , (who promptly scolded me for riding on the flat and probably damaging the rim). About 25 minutes later I got a call from the garage, stating my car had been broken into while parked at the gas station. The attendant told the criminals (not knowing they were criminals at first) to get out of the car after they had broken in. They left with some of dashboard, but at least the car was not stolen. The next day we road home with a replacement tire, which unbeknownst to me was the WRONG size; all the way home the car shook and rattled, scaring this 8 months pregnant lady to death. Again dad scolded me because the gas station had put the wrong tire on. (Of course, my fault).

You forgot the car that had NO REVERSE. I had to park on high ground so I could roll out of a parking spot, or push it. There was the car with no key, it had a permanent screwdriver in the ignition to start it. One of these two also had a driver door that would NOT open and the driver side window did not work; someone had to sit shot gun if you went thru a toll. Then there was the car that stalled and you had to bang the starter with a hammer to get it to work. An Dad's white convertible had to be filled with oil EVERY time you drove it, as it leaked profusely as you drove. Don't forget the car we had to push and then pop the clutch to get it started, luckily it was small."

Well, damn, she's better at this than me. Thank you mom, for sharing more wonderful memories that I seem to have forgotten, and for letting everyone know where I get my sarcasm from. You gotta have a sense of humor to deal with the trials and tribulations of the Strombergs. Luckily, we do. 

Thanks Mom. <3

FLASHBACK FRIDAY!: The Stromberg Family Car Curse

Sure, I'll do a theme every week. Why not?

And why shouldn't it have something to do with my childhood, since that seems to be my fixation? (I know, I know I write about it all the time.....well guess what? Deal with it.)

*Last night I was able to dig up some concept characters from an old NYU Animation course. Lili, the cartoon depiction on the left of my real-life little sis (and her fishie), seemed like the perfect mascot for Flashback Fridays.

I figured I would start off with a great piece of Stromberg family lore:

The Infamous Stromberg Family "Carrrr Currrse"
~

::cue spooky music, thunder claps::

For as long as I can remember, my family has owned the crappiest cars known to man. We have never had the luxury of a brand new or certified pre-owned beauty; only sad clunkers, pre-used by other folks in their four-wheeled glory days, but too abused by time to be reaped of its transportation benefits by the Stromberg clan. And through the struggles of failing transmissions, broken windows and noisy mufflers, my father still insisted on maintaining a long lineage of half-assed purchases.

I am convinced that somewhere in Stromberg history, we must have royally pissed off a car. Perhaps there's something rotten in my namesake's history of engines. Nevertheless, this curse has been passed onto the next generation, ie me, for my luck with cars did not get any better once I got my license. I learned to identify the smell of anti-freeze before it even started leaking. (This is why I live in NY and take public transportation.)

Anyway, here are some of the highlights of the Stromberg transportation heritage. Or should I say, here lie the ghosts of Stromberg past. May they forever rest in pieces.

∆ Mom's Hyundai
Admittedly, it was a great little car. However, when it was broken into in Brooklyn, and the entire dashboard was stolen, mom dec</span>ided it was best to move to New Jersey. I also distinctly remember sitting in this car as a child while my mom pulled away angrily, as an insurance (or some other corporate asshole) stood waving his arms to try to get her from leaving, and nearly running him over. Don't deny it mom. It's okay. Cuz that's pretty bad-ass.

∆ Dad's White Convertible
Dad's baby. It had a pre-ripped black leather interior that would heat up like a frying pan in the sun, a black cloth top, and a decal of a naked woman bending over (that was always awkward). Dad would play the same Alice Cooper cassette over and over on the way to softball games. But the car had no heat, and it broke down at least every week.

∆ Dad's Big Ugly Grave Digger

Dad's bigger baby. It was a bright yellow monster with a crappy pipe design on the side doors. When you started the engine, the whole neighborhood roared, and you most likely experienced an apocalyptic heart attack. There were also fist-sized spiders hiding in the back.

My mom HATED this truck, claiming it never worked and wasn't worth the money. But I will never forget that day in 2nd grade when that huge monster came chugging into our elementary school parking lot. Every kid out there dropped their jaws in awe; I felt like a queen as I was lifted up 3 feet to sit in the passenger seat and waved to all the gawking parents and their boring two-door coupes. It was the best day of my 7 year old life.

∆ Chevrolet Silver Lumina Van
We were so excited to finally have a VAN big enough to fit our ever-growing family! And it had working features! It was used, but it was still new to us. However, things started deteriorating after a few years. The sliding door could only be opened from the outside, while the front drivers side door could only be opened from the inside. The CD player didn't work (major bummer) and sometimes the engine would overheat, which resulted in a cascade of antifreeze to pour out from under the hood.

On the way back from grandma's on Rte 8 in Jersey, our radio kept going in and out: the battery was dying. We pulled onto the side of the road, as I sadly left the Entemann's crumb donut grandma had given me behind on the dashboard. We entered a bar to wait for dad to show up. This is when we realized that it was half bar/half chinese restaurant that also sold fried chicken and burgers. An old man stood in the corner creepily meowing like a cat, while a Steven Seagal movie played on TV.

This van may have died for a two year hiatus, collecting leaves and grime in our driveway while we still had to pay insurance, but then it was back with a brand new engine; just in time for me to get my license at 18....and subsequently crash it during a botched left turn, leaving a gaping hole in the front.

∆ Two Lincoln Continentals
They were comfy, low to the ground, and classy for a Stromberg car. But they were old. The ceiling was caving in and the mufflers were fucked so much that it sounded like a motorcycle driving down the highway.

I started driving our Continental to high school, which was an hour away. One particular spring day after class, I decided to follow a group of friends to the beach, which was only about 10 minutes away. We had only traveled a few feet when I hear a horrible scraping noise.

"Geez, who's car is making that annoying sound? Doesn't sound good."

My friend Esther and I looked out the window and saw someone in the next car signaling us frantically with their hands.

"Oh, shit. It's me."

At the beach I made the startling discovery that my muffler was dragging behind the car, hanging by a thread. A friend tied it up with twine temporarily, but warned me it wouldn't last long. Back at the school parking lot I called my dad:

Me: "Dad, there's something wrong with the car..."
Dad: "SHIT! What did you do?"
Me: "....Nothing! The muffler is hanging by a thread, it looks like it's gonna fall-"
Dad: "SHIT GODAMMIT!"
>Me: "...we tied it up with some twine..."
Dad: "That's gonna catch fire! That COCKSUCKER! I put a Pepsi can on it; I thought that would hold it!"
Me: "You put a WHAT????"
Dad: "Listen, this is what you gotta do. Get a wire hanger, and bend it, then wrap it around-"
Me: "Dad, I don't know how to do that!"
Dad: "Why can't the janitor do it?"

So, there I am, at the end of the day, crouching next to my principal who is laying under my car as he wraps a wire hanger around the muffler. He is still wearing his suit.

∆ Tara's 1972 Dodge Dart Swinger
My first car ever. My dad pushed me to get it, since he was the one who really appreciated it, but I fell in love easy. Quite simply, this car was HOT. I got more looks from dudes than I had ever gotten before (...mostly they were drooling over the car, not me). But it didn't matter; I had high hopes for this pin-up on wheels. I was gonna get it re-vamped, with some sky blue paint and a radio that played more than just the AM stations.

But this thing was 30 years old, and it showed. The floor was rotting away; there were two bowling ball sized holes on near the gas pedal, so when I drove, I worried about it turning it into the Flinstone's car. Neither the heat nor the AC functioned, and the entire dashboard would shake if you went over 60 mph. It also cost me $1,200 for a new transmission.

But I shall always remember it fondly.

***

Tune into Flashback Friday next week when I share a Matlock Memory!

Don't Rain on my Cherry Blossom Parade....

After waiting in excited anticipation for this year's promisingly beautiful Cherry Blossom festival, Sakura Matsuri, in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, my little anime face of joy broke into streams of exaggerated tears from my excessively large eyes. Sunday was full of rain. Lots of rain. Cold and drab, and all around miserable. The festival still went on, but mostly under large tents and people holding umbrellas covered with sad pink petals; flowers soggy by an unseasonally chilly shower.

However, I was suprised that it didn't seem to stop anyone from attending, as the panels and performances were still packed with people from all over the five boroughs. And of course, there wasn't corner of the dripping gardens where one couldn't see a some cosplaying kid (even the college ages looked pubescent) strolling by in a huge Naruto robe with a much-too-realistic stick/sword/bomb/ninja cross, donning a huge, spiky white wig.

There were a few cutely dressed girls in Gothic Lolita attire; one had platforms that rose three inches. Many giggling geishas still scuttled along the wet path in their patterned dresses; however, somewhat less pleasant were those 30-40 year old women with their robes open for all to see their overly large, hanging bosoms.

We did get to see some nice Bonsai, as well as eat some overly priced hot dogs (still cheaper than the Japanese food). It was only after that we realized it was raining into the hot dog pot, cherry blossom petals floating on top.

But even though it was a bit of a bust, I still got to spend time with family, and that was most important. Why apart from the yelling and bickering and teasing, it might be considered pleasant. Sisters Lili and Ceri had stayed over with Mom and Kristabel (Ceri's best friend and practically mom's adopted daughter) that night with me, ogled over my apartment (minus the occasional roach) and bought me groceries (mom's always worry that you never eat.) Ryan came along for the festival as well, and joined us for dinner at Wendy's. The Strombergs: always keepin' it classy.