On Control Freaks at Hunter's Dinner.

Okay, so I love these kinds of Saturdays (and loathe the Sundays that follow, but that's another story).

Today was Hunt  Day. The traditional hunt, involving family on my father's side. And a bunch of lovely people with or without kids that you really wouldn't picture holding a gun if you didn't know them under these circumstances. I used to accompany on these hunts. Call it reconnecting with my wild side, if I have one.

Sadly, I had work for school this morning, and couldn't accompany directly. It's no use trying to catch up later, because these are 'battues' -- the hunters and trackers move together. The victims are pheasants, this time of year, and only the males, season's finished for hens as well as other small things traditionally preyed upon at 'battues', like hares.

Hunt Day on the family domain brings a pretty pitiful tableau (that's what's been killed). Mostly, it exists of nothing, nada, zero, and the hunters are happy they spotted something. Which explains why mos of the hunters are long time family friends, or members of the family. You do not go to the Bosmans hunt for the game (the wild animals hunted for food), you go for the Hunter's dinner after, 'ambiance' and 'blanquette' from Den Dikke Beenhouwer guaranteed. You go for the wine, the friends, the stories, the memories, you go so your kids can play in what is unmistakeably kids' heaven.

I guess it's fairly easy to deduce how much I love my family when you read this blog. It's true. For example, I sat in front of Nicholas Simonart at dinner, who went to the same school as I go to now and whose former landlord was my former technology teacher. We also are some kind of distant in-law relatives. We shared school souvenirs and laughed about our mutual teachers. It's amazing how many of them he knew. I've got to say 'hi' for him. How embarrassing is that?


It's fun though. As is playing with the dogs, kids and other underdeveloped organisms.
And stuffing yourself full of food, of course. Blanquette with mashed potato? Talk about filling. You might just as well eat concrete, except concrete tastes nothing as good as that treat. I feel like my stomach turned solid.

Moving on. My mother once again made me ashamed of my genes. Seriously, did someone cast a spell on us so she would behave like the teenage girl and me like the rational woman? She played matchmaker today. Seriously, matchmaker. Trying to get one of her old friends to hook up with one of dad's friends. Help. I am so writing a book on childhood trauma because of parents' pathetic behaviour.

Finally, for the little freak out: apparently, I am a control freak. Aptitude test interpreted by a teacher, but still, I was about to open my mouth to protest when I realised it was true. Scary as hell, discovering something that important about you you had never even imagined before. I thought I cared. In fact, I was trying to control? That's very creepy. My aunt, whom I talk to about these kinds of things, says it's a family trait, that every Bosmans sibling has it, each expressing it in other ways. I've caught my dad's strain, which is to take a big amount of the workload on yourself because you want to control the process. Hullo, trust issues. She says it's a good sign I've realised it, because that means I can work on it. I wanted to ask her what her strain was, since it's such a recurring family trait. Guess I do have tact.

I miss somebody I could talk to about these kinds of things. The deeper turmoil. Perhaps I need a shrink. You know, that aunt, my favourite aunt, she's on anti-depressants. When I was little, my goal was to grow up to be just like Joëlle. Just like her. And even though she's a great person, she hasn't got a life I envy. She gets crazy by living so close to her parents, my grand-parents, who aren't getting easier to live with with old age. She was an arts teacher for mentally handicapped people, adults who had the mental set of a 6 year-old and still peed in their pants, and she often had terrible workplaces and bosses. Yet she kept going at it. Elle a la niaque. Until it really became too much and she quit. She loved it, but she's never going back. I believe she's a true artist. Are all true artist troubled on the psyche side? And how troubled do you need to be to be good?

I do not know anyone who's like me in enough manners to understand me completely when I talk like this. I suppose it's why what I really think about important stuff rarely comes out. Sure, I have friends. But not one I'd bother with this stuff. Not one that'd want to be bothered, too. I happen to be a weirdo. Tough, but that's the way it is, and I've got to learn to deal with it.

I wish I could talk to someone, though. Is there anyone volunteering to be my shrink?