Greetings from Fishkill, New York

I promise that this post will have nothing to do with gambling or sports. I'm writing from my cousin Nick's house in upstate New York, on a 40-degree summer (!!) evening, having eaten chicken parm and drank more than one amaretto on the rocks. I complain about grad school a fair bit, but I love that it affords me the freedom to (every so often) skip out of town on Thursday night and spend a long weekend with family and friends.

Speaking of family, visiting my cousin is like giving a State of the Family address. When I'm here, I'm the emissary from New Jersey, and I actually take notes in advance so that I'm prepared to answer the questions I'm asked fairly and honestly. I need to know how EVERYONE is doing, from my Mom's neighbors to Murphy, my dog. To be honest, I enjoy this a lot.

My mom's side of the family is of the typical, hyper-extended Italian-American type. I have more cousins than I could name, and I wouldn't be able to pick 95% of them out of a lineup if I had to. Yes, we eat a lot of cold cuts. When I visit my cousins, I accept that I'm going to hear names that I've never heard before, and they will be somehow related to me. Sometimes -- and this is the most awkward -- they'll remember me and I'll have no clue who they are.

This will happen at any sort of social gathering, where some relative comes scampering up to me, telling me that they remembered when I was a baby or something similar to this (NOTE: Always, vaguely, like it's deserving of some sort of praise... what do I say, congratulations on fulfilling an average human life span? I'm never sure how to handle this.) I admit this flatters me, because I can't imagine my babyhood being a memorable event for anyone, except maybe my parents. So yeah, that's pretty cool, feeling important, you know.

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In my quarter century on this earth (25th birthday coming soon), I've come to the conclusion that the "typical American family life" -- Mom, Dad, two kids, a dog, and lots of white bread and peanut butter -- is pretty much horseshit. In any random group of people (and yes, families are random groups of people, with genetics playing only a faint supporting role), there are bound to be lots of fuck-ups, a few great individuals, but mostly just people who live their lives and make their livings. But even the fuck-ups make families fun, because who else better to make fun of? And what better thing to make fun of, in general, than your own family?

I haven't met too many families in my life that I'm in awe of. Even the Kennedys had a fucked-up sister who was lobotomized and thrown in an institution. And there are times that being in my family in particular pisses me off. But on nights like tonight, thick with laughter and good stories and jokes and smoke, everything is kinda OK.

All right, commence the making fun of me in the "Comments" section below. I'm looking forward to it, and in a sense I kinda deserve it. I'm such a little girl (except for when I'm writing about gambling or sports). Stay classy.