Written by user CelticFalme001

There are certain things a teenage girl cannot handle, no matter the circumstances.

You know, divorce, terminal illness, extreme wardrobe malfunctions (Alright, so I haven't exactly had experience with the previous three). But most important on this list: enormous, lengthy, intensely stupid family reunions in British Colombia (Because why not chose a random province an airplane flight and several hours drive away to hold this stupid thing....).

Okay, I'll admit that my whole family is from British Colombia. Point taken. But having a reunion is still an inconvenience when living in Ottawa, Ontario

Hopefully they'll be some sort of massive earthquake and I'll fall into a fault line. I don't actually know if you can fall into a fault line, mostly because I did not pay attention during geography, but heck, if it is possible and gets me off the hook for this thing, I'll do it. Or I'll fall off a mountain or something. I know for a fact that British Colombia has mountains.

Mostly because three out of my four siblings have upchucked repeatedly due to the aforementioned Rockies and were screaming and sobbing at the top of their lungs for nearly an hour as a result.

To be honest, this whole trip has been pretty darn miserable so far. Not that I was expecting anything other than brutal desolation of course....

My earbuds are jammed in and the volume on my phone is up all the way, blaring "Default', some obscure scream band whose music I purchased for the sole reason of permanently damaging my hearing in order to drone out my family. This is the third time I've listened to their album, 21 songs, whole thing through at top volume.

As a result, my head is aching. And I think my ears may start bleeding. But I don't care.

I do not usually listen to hard rock. But it has to be better than Theo and the Tigers, which was last hours music repeat.

Trust me, nobody listens to Theo and the Tigers for an hour. Nobody listens to Theo and the Tigers for five minutes. Just in general, nobody listens to them.

(To explain: Theo and the Tigers is a 'band' formed by most of my friends last summer when they were bored and wanted to get out of the house. Hence 'band' in quotations, which pretty much explains it all. The only reason I bought their CD was because I did some cello for it. Which appeared on two tracks. And is pretty much drowned out by the guitars, keyboards, borrowed saxophones and electric bagpipes. There is a very understandable reason why they sold a grand total of two CDs).

I mean, rationally, there must be some manner to drown out the wailing of my siblings and shelter me from the upcoming storm (Otherwise known as our family reunion). Unfortunately, attempting to rupture my earbuds is not it. Rupturing them will cause pain, temporary relief from the noise and potentially an unwanted trip to the emergency room. What will not happen is the immediate stoppage of this whole miserable gathering.

I cannot deal with this thing. Even with ruptured eardrums, sobbing siblings or stressed out parents I cannot deal with it. I cannot deal with my immediate family.

Therefore, I have absolutely no idea how I am going to survive a week with my lovely extended family, including all twenty-five cousins (Our family is like rabbits. It's actually a bit ridiculous when you think about global food shortages). Most of whom I haven't seen in like, thirteen years. Just the idea of this thing is for reason enough for sweaty palms and hyperventilation.

(Maybe not that extreme). But you get the general point. To whomever decided to organize this thing: IT WAS A FREAKING BAD IDEA.

I rub my temples, trying to ward off an oncoming headache just as somebody taps my shoulder. I twist around to face Isaac, my oldest, youngest brother. He's ten. With the maturity of a two year old.

"Your music is too loud," he complains from behind me "We can't hear Frodo over the beat."

"And it's an important part too!" Andrew adds, eyes transfixed at the small DVD screen attached to the ceiling of the rental van. Obviously they have gotten over their motion sickness.

I suppose that's a good sign...wait a second.

Oh my dear Lord. Are they literally watching Lord of the Rings again?

I actually think Andrew is the only seven year old in the world who actually knows all the names of every single character of the trilogy as well as the precise familial connections of all the books. To be honest, it's a bit weird. They (aka Andrew and Isaac) have watched Lord of the Rings so many times that I don't think my two younger brothers can tell the difference between real life and Middle Earth.

Don't get me wrong, I like the books. But I'm talking obsessive behaviour here though.

Rolling my eyes, I oblige, turning the volume down a couple of clicks, until they seem satisfied. Dad shots me a sympathetic smile from the passenger seat. He's rocking the baby, six month old Reagan, who has finally fallen asleep after forty-five solid minutes of screaming. I know for a fact that dad didn't want to do this stupid trip either.

But obviously, he gave into mum. It's her side of the family after all. Mum grew up with five brothers and as a result, has turned out as some sort of a bossy female alpha. Dad is definitely the compliant member of the relationship. It's a bit weird, to be honest.

I sigh, stare out the window and watch the trees and hills passing by, melting into a mosaic of messy hues as we go faster, up and down hills, into valleys. I rest my head on the cool glass, wishing I could be anywhere else but here.

God. We have been driving for ages and it doesn't help that the rented mini-van is filled to the brim with kids' stuff, sleeping bags, and suitcases—pretty much anything you could fit into a car after bringing on a plane. As a result, there is zero room in the car, between people and stuff. My legs are jammed very uncomfortably against the side door. Mum is driving steering, the entire van barreling down the twisting highway (I'm not sure I trust her driving skills). Dads in the passenger with Reagan. I'm on left, middle row surrounded by everything. Beside me is Maureen, thirteen years old and a complete drama queen. She's reading Twilight, with a slightly awed expression on her face.

I knew it. I should have taken that book and buried it as soon as she brought it into our bedroom.

And behind us, still watching Lord of the Rings is Andrew and Isaac.

Rubbing my temples, I make a silent resolve. If I make it through this thing, I'm seceding from the family.

Mum pulls a sudden turn onto some gravel road fringed with tall pine trees. Admittedly, B.C is pretty. This is the first time we've ever come out West.

On the left side of the road, half hidden by overgrown seedlings and brush is a sagging, rusting white sign. It's a strain to read the faded letters "Gallagher Vacation Cottage Rental" with some directions, barely legible. I'm still transfixed by the name. My aunt Tracey and Uncle Gordon own this place apparently. That's where it's being held.

Oh God, we're almost there. Judgment day is coming down.

A few more turns later, we stop, coming upon a clearing filled with various cars and people, all milling around, laughing, and talking, unloading cars and lugging coolers. It's raining, but despite that, people are in kayaks on the lake, and another person is trying to light a fire on a small stretch of rocky coastal beach. Suddenly a presumable relation spots our car and waddles over. His gait is comparable to that of a duck.

As he draws closer, I can see that he's about fifty, beer bellied, unshaven, gray haired and is wearing an enormous mustard yellow whaling poncho.

And wielding a red gas can. While gnawing on a lit cigar.

Internal face palm.

"Charlotte!" He exclaims, as mum rolls down the window. She smiles and leans in for a hug.

"Ben! How are you?" I can smell alcohol from here. He laughs, showing yellow teeth and pats his budging stomach.

"Ah you know me Char, same as always!" he spots dad in the passenger seat "And Ralph!"

"It's Robin," dad replies tersely "It's always been Robin." Name is a touchy subject for him. I don't really think he's ever forgiven his parents for naming him after a bird. And it's not like my uncles will ever forget it.

You see, Dad and his brother-in-laws have a mutual hate going on. I think that they feel obligated to 'protect' my mum, who is the youngest of the family, plus a girl. I don't actually know the reasoning. Whatever the reasoning, it's stupid.

"Charlotte's here!" somebody shouts, and people start swarming towards our car "And Ralph! With the kids!"

"It's Robin," I hear dad mutter as he rocks the baby "Fifty two bloody years it's been Robin..."

All I see is a mass of cowboy boots and plaid shirts and know that my extended family has not changed one bit.

You see, they are all rednecks. Stereotypical, traditional, beer drinking, uneducated rednecks.

I don't think I'll be able to survive the week.