To boat or not to boat

So M. and I are taking the train up to Massachusetts on Friday night for our meet-the-caterers weekend. We're not going out to Provincetown until Sunday, which leaves us with a full Saturday to lounge around the pool, or poke around the cute antique shops in my parents' town, or stare at the ceiling.

Except when I was on the phone with my mother last night, we had no sooner established the fact that we had no plans to speak of on Saturday, when she was already suggesting that M. and I could go out on the boat with my father - who, by the way, she has taken to referring simply, and somewhat acidly, as "him". This plan, to be sure, would fulfill certain prophecies (see third paragraph from the bottom here), but it also leaves me feeling, as usual, somewhat morally quandaried.

As in, my father still can't talk about the wedding, or have it talked about in his presence, which is hypothetically somewhat understandable if not excusable, but which makes me feel like I shouldn't go on pretending like life is otherwise normal and participating in normal (or really not normal, but rather new and strange and very recent) father-son-boyfriend activities.

"What's that, Dad?"
"..."
"You believe I'm going to Hell? Really?"
"..."
"And you, too, if you attend my wedding?"
"..."
"Hmm."
"..."
"But you're still up for a little Big Bass Fishing?"
"..."
"Well....okay, sounds good, but only if you let me steer!"
"..."
"Oh, Dad!!"

This is somewhat of a foregone issue, as I already know that I will absolutely pretend like life is otherwise normal, Big Bass Fishing or not.

But still, it makes me feel funny. In a bad way.

The good news is that my ongoing intercranial concerns - which have dissipated somewhat, in addition to moving from my left ear to my right - appear to have granted me Supersonic Hearing Powers. I was laying in bed this morning and realized, when I put my head on the pillow, that it wasn't just some sort of lawnmower-like sound in my own head that I was hearing, it was the sound of Ninth Avenue four floors below me.

"Yeah, Groomzilla," you say, "That's awesome, but you live right on Ninth Avenue, you hear that sound all day and night."

To which I say, "Yes, normally this is true, but this morning, when I didn't have my head on the pillow, I couldn't hear any street noise at all. It was only when I placed my new Preternaturally Powerful Ear on the pillow that I could literally hear the crunching of tires on the street."

To which you say, "I think you need to get your thyroid rechecked."

And I reply, "Perhaps so, but at least I am crazy, depressed and skinny."

(N.B.: My tests came back normal today, which means it is only a matter of time before I am fat and happy again.)