June 8, 2006
Passing the parent test
Indy 500 is a tough place to bond with boyfriend's family.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

My boyfriend's entire family came to town for Memorial Day weekend.

Typically, this is the weekend I get out of town as it's also "race weekend."

Always eager to entertain, I cleaned house for three days before they arrived.

Before we picked them up at the airport I gave the microwave one last dousing of 409 cleaner. (Moms always check microwaves.)

From what I could see, I passed in this category.

Not only did I meet the parents et al, but I attended the Indy 500 with them, as well.

This is where it got a little tricky.

Some people dread meeting the family, but I am of the peculiar breed who looks forward to such things, where interest and putting your best feet forward converge.

Unfortunately, I vehemently dislike large crowds who gather where music isn't playing; watching drunk people crush beer cans against their heads, and heavy contenders battling it out for Darwin Awards.
Oh, and I'm not a race fan.

The band Staind played a tune from their catalog of morose selections before the race began, and I couldn't help but imagine their disappointment in crowd enthusiasm.

My boyfriend said, "They sure chose an uplifting song for the 90th running, eh?"

I heaved a sigh that noted being stuck wearing earplugs for four hours.

I downed two beers before Mari Hulman George called for the engines to start, and a boxed lunch appeared on my lap.

Things were looking up.

But after I ate the chicken breast, only a bruised apple remaining, there were still three hours left.

From me came a silent sigh and a big, toothy smile for his dad.

I cheered, I clapped and I pulled for the Andrettis: It was a name I recognized.

After the race, we made the fatal mistake of herding through the endless IndyGo shuttle line headed back Downtown, where one employee belittled us all, and grated our remaining nerves.

Trying to remain carefree, and not get in a fistfight with the frustrated masses (because a fist fight might leave a lasting impression), this proved a difficult time to impress new parents.

But we all made a pact to watch the race at their house next year, on the big screen; oh mighty Isis, how we bonded.

Later, we grilled steaks and let off fireworks.

After several beers I performed my high school fight song while holding six sparklers.

I'm not sure if I passed this category, but I gave it my all.

My boyfriend told me to keep being myself.