Vignette: Eat my Couch

Family vacations were not something I looked forward to as a child. One year we went to San Juan and stayed at the Hilton. While we were outside admiring the flamingos a rat darted out of nowhere and ran over my foot. I was terrified of large rodents. I screamed. My parents swooped in and scolded me for making noise. I knew it was a bad omen.

Every morning my mother wore dark sunglasses to the breakfast table to hide the fact that she'd been crying. My brother had already ordered and eaten three breakfasts for himself waiting for them to get up. I wanted to go home.

One year my parents announced a family vacation to Spain. My sister was away having her junior year abroad. "You're not invited, you're no fun to be around," my mother said to me. My step-father was not allowed to say anything because I was "her property" and she knew that I was his favorite. I stayed home and sat on the wooden white radiator cover in my bedroom, and watched kids skating in the distant pond.

When I was in college my parents decided to take a family vacation to Peru, to visit my sister in Lima and tour Machu Piccu. I was invited this time but I was anxious about the idea so I declined. My mother commanded that I come get their dog from their country house in Western Massachusetts and take her to my Providence apartment to dog-sit. I already had a big dog and a full-time job as a prep-chef in a downtown bar. My older step-brother felt sorry for me and came up from Brooklyn with his pregnant wife and vomiting child. It was overwhelming. I was very young and had no experience juggling these things. On July 4th while I was at work my parent's dog was terrorized by the neighborhood firecrackers. When I got home from work at 12:30 AM, my living room was a sea of yellow stuffing and springs. My parents dog had eaten my couch.