Tubing Down the Hooch and Other Summer-Time Activities

When my dad gets an idea, or project, into his head, the signature Stieber stubbornness is released in full force.  He will not let go of this idea until said idea is actually executed.  For instance, take his latest summer-time obsession: tubing down the 'Hooch.'  The 'Hooch' is, in fact, the less-than-sparklingly-clean Chattahoochie River that runs through, and around, and about the Atlanta area.  (My geography is not exactly my greatest strength, so pardon me if I'm not accurately describing the weavings and windings of the Hooch accurately.)  Every weekend, for the past month, my dad has called on Sunday morning, generally at an hour where any normal 25 year old who has just been out until the wee hours of the night is still sleeping, suggesting we go tubing down the Hooch.  For those of you who know even the remotest thing about me, if anything, I am a planner.  My OCD-esque tendencies always emerge in my weekly planning, and, generally, my weekends are all sorted out by the time Thursday rolls around.  (I'm working on being more spontaneous though... albeit very begrudgingly.)

The first time my dad asked to go tubing, he sounded positively crushed when I said I already had plans.  "But, whyyyyyy?" he practically whined, in tones reminiscent of a five-year-old child complaining about why he couldn't watch another hour of TV or stay up past his bedtime.  I explained to him, channeling a typical mother's response to this complaining five-year-old child, that some people actually have other plans in advance, and it's not meant as a personal slight or affront; just this thing called scheduling.  I suggested he give it a whirl the next time he wanted to go tubing.  Apparently, scheduling is not something that sank in with my father because, for the next three weekends, he has called either on Sunday, yet again, or on Saturday afternoon, asking about tubing.

Yes, tubing is a pretty fun activity, in that you're lazily floating down the freezing cold Hooch while it's a scorching 98 degrees in the air around you.  (Imagine a frosty ass and sweat-tastic chest, and you've got the picture.)  But, being a fair-complected girl of Romanian origin, I'm fairly daunted by the idea of being directly under the sun's cancer-inducing glare for a solid three hours.  I'm very familiar with SPF 75, and even that couldn't beat so much time in the hot Georgia summer light.

But my dad called again this morning, suggesting tubing tomorrow, and I told him I'd think about.  So perhaps, I'll be writing to you next time with a beyond uncomfortable, boiling sunburn.

The Stieber Family Tree

For those of you who know my family, this blog may not hold a lot of mystery. But for those of you who are less familiar with the Stieber clan, I hope to illuminate many of the reasons my brother Jarrett and I are, well, the way we are. (And are not crack addicts, which was easily the other route we could have taken, given the circumstances.) Not that I'm saying I have a bad family. I adore my family, and I wouldn't be who I am without them. But they can be... interesting... to say the least.

Let's take my dad. He's the best father in the world, at least in my opinion, and I would be absolutely one hundred percent lost without him. But he happens to be a well-bred Romanian surgeon with redneck tendencies, such as an unparalleled zeal for ultra-conservative politics, guns and hunting wild boar, and a bizarrely-strong love for making really fancy coffee, and latte art. (Seriously, anyone who steps foot in my parents' house is almost instantaneously offered a cappuccino.) He has a full-fledged relationship with our pet cat, Toast, which extends beyond the normal realm of the master/pet dynamic. He has absolutely perfected the art of doing nothing, and he is a master sleeper, able to instantly fall asleep any time, anywhere. (This is largely due to his years as a surgical resident in New York City. Literally, he can fall asleep standing in line at the security check at an airport.) He speaks seven languages fluently and is conversational in four others. I think he's secretly a CIA agent, or at least some sort of undercover operative. He has an escape plan, should the "shit go down," that involves us moving to either British Columbia or his friend's high-security estate in East Dublin, Ga. He develops hobbies and then blows them well out of proportion, taking them to the level of obsession, which has lead to such things as having every plant in our house look like a bonsai tree and wearing nothing but camouflage clothing. These are all reasons why I love my dad.

Then there's my mom. She's... a character. She can completely enrapture and captivate a room full of people, and most everybody likes her. She likes to talk. A lot. Enough so that she doesn't even really notice when people stop listening now, or I can set the phone down, bake a loaf of bread, pick it back up and realize she hasn't noticed that I have not been an active part of the conversation. She looks a little like Stephen Tyler. (Some people actually think they are one in the same, but I have yet to fully buy into that theory. It is, however, debatable.) She thinks she can sing. She does strange Cirque-du-Soleil-esque contortionist positions and claims to be comfortable in them, then wonders why she has horrific back problems. She lies, a lot. Sometimes it's aggravating, sometimes it's sad but usually it's just funny. She's creating a website, which seems to be about her and how she can pee almost anywhere, (her claim, not mine), and I think she's joined Facebook, although I am loath to actually investigate this. I'm still shocked by the fact that she knows what a computer is. She frequently does not wear pants. Including when people like the bug exterminator or a bathroom remodeler are in the house. She loves eggs, cooked in all shapes and forms. She has a pair of patent-leather red high heels that my brother calls her Dorothy shoes, which she made us get her for Mother's Day two years ago. She should probably be on the TV show "Intervention," but we can't quite figure out how to make that happen. She loves making things with puff paint, glitter and beads. She's completely batshit insane, but, hell, it sure makes for some great stories.

I'll get to my grandparents another time, but let's just say my paternal grandfather was one of the most dynamic, cultured, amazing, intelligent men I've ever met, as well as an aging Casanova who hit on anything with boobs, my paternal grandmother is adorable, and may in fact be a hobbit, and my maternal grandmother is amazingly generous, horrifically ADD, a wiz with the stock market and incapable of getting any proper noun correct, (The names of actors, actresses, historical monuments, Fortune 500 companies and retail clothing stores are completely lost on her.).

And then there's my brother and me. (And my brother's girlfriend, who started out as an innocent bystander but is now a part of the clan. We absolutely adore her, and I am still in awe of the fact that she hasn't run away, screaming, whenever my dad proudly brandishes a wild boar haunch from his latest kill or my mom makes her a bedazzled tank top that says, 'I'm with the band,' with a picture of my half-naked brother ironed onto the back.)

As I mentioned before, while we are not completely normal, my brother and I are relatively functional, socially-accepted young adults. We should, for all intents and purposes, be hard-core drug users, missing teeth and living in some sort of commune in North Dakota. But we are not. We just happen to have more stories than we know what to do with about our immediate family, which I am hoping to share with you all in this blog. If there's one thing my family is good at, it's being the stuff stories are made of, as well as continually crossing the line. And no matter how many times we ask our parents not to, they always elaborate, giving way too many details or taking an awkward situation or story to a whole new level never thought possible. But we wouldn't be the Stiebers without a little line crossing. It's what we do best.