Well, I survived. We all did. With all our fingers and toes intact, despite the fact that by Day Two nails and knuckles were being gnawed, lips chewed and tongues bitten, and Day Three brought with it the very real possibility of blood sacrifice and cannibalism.

My mother and my Aunt Mindy — aka The Hurricane — arrived Friday morning from Indiana. By the time they left Monday afternoon, I'd racked up at least ten more years of therapy. Well, maybe not ten. I can probably get out of it in six if I do distance therapy and go nights and weekends.

Our long weekend had its moments, that's for sure. I had not visited the brutal touristic underbelly of Boston for awhile. I'll tell you this much: It ain't pretty. I tried to balance out the goofier touristy stuff with glimpses of the more intimate and idiosyncratic Boston I know and love, with decidedly mixed results.

I had some slightly off the beaten path ideas for Day One, for example. We took a water taxi from Logan, so my peeps could see Boston the way the original Viking conquerors did. Or whatever. And later we took a stroll from Park Street through the Common to the Public Garden and on down Newbury Street, and had lunch at the Top of the Hub. All of which were touristy, but with a dash of adventure, I thought.

Unfortunately, what was just a hop, skip and jump for me was a veritable slog for them. My aunt, especially, who, God love her, sometimes comes off a little like Chicken Lady from the old Kids in the Hall sketch, started in on me before we'd even cleared the Common.

I'd anticipated this to some degree, and had picked up a couple of Charlie Cards and loaded them up for them. The green line isn't too scary, as long as you avoid the feckshow leaving Park Street Station. After a long lunch on the 52nd Floor of the Pru we didn't even have to leave the building to catch the T back to the Omni Parker House, where they were staying.

But by Day Two my aunt didn't want to walk more than a block or two or take the T, despite the fact that the T was irritatingly efficient all weekend, and the other passengers on it were vexingly polite, striking up conversations and offering up their seats. By Sunday my aunt all but refused to leave the hotel. We had brunch there, and an early dinner in the bar, popping out in between for a quick duck tour.

Of course, in a city like Boston, the journey is the destination. Strolling through Boston's neighborhoods is really the essence of enjoying the city itself. Aside from a couple of dinner dates, we had nowhere in particular to take a cab to. They had already nixed any and all museums, we didn't have tickets to a Sox game, and you can only hang out in the food court at Fanueil Hall for so long. I'd been toying with the idea of taking the ferry to P-Town Sunday, but they were predicting afternoon thunderstorms. A duck tour was just what the doctor ordered.

But even Friday and Saturday were a bit of a trial at times. Particularly whenever we left one spot for another. I had to give my aunt an estimate of blocks we would have to walk to get wherever we were going. I would always underestimate a wee bit to motivate them, knowing that we'd have opportunities for plenty of pit stops along the way. But as it turned out, the chief activity of the weekend was betting on how many blocks my estimates would be off by.

Of course I realized about an hour into their visit that I had a much grander vision for their stay than was practicable. I was more than willing to adjust my expectations, but by the time we got to the Pru a couple of hours into it the damage was done. After the hue and cry over the approximately ten block slog from Park Street, which I had kept saying was "just a couple more blocks," I could never be trusted to guide them again.

In fact, nothing I told them about Boston could be trusted after that, and my aunt made sure to fact-check me on everything. If I said, "I think the next street is Milk" and it turned out to be Water, it'd be, "I thought you said it was Milk." And all the rest of the day, to shop clerks and strangers on the street, the doorman and the concierge, it would be: "he told us it was Milk when it was Water!"

The next time I said, "Oh, I think that's Summer Street up on the left there!" I'd hear: "well, that's what you said yesterday, with Milk, and it turned out to be Water!" God help me if I got Summer Street, which runs East of Washington, confused with Winter, to the West.

When most of what I'd said on our little walkabouts, give or take a name or a date here and there, was confirmed by our delightful duck tour guide on Sunday, I could tell my aunt was a little chagrined. Luckily she didn't see me slip him a fiver and a crib sheet of all the historical inaccuracies I'd been peddling. Among them: the original Puritans were steam-driven robots, the original natives were Sleestaks, Ben Franklin invented the Prius, and Boston was named after Boris Godunov, which, obviously, is "boston" spelled backwards.

Fortunately my aunt, whom we refer to affectionately as Sarge, had been to Boston once, about ten years ago, and was ready to take over when it was clear I was an ill-informed and unreliable guide. So with the exception of the dinner dates I'd arranged, I basically let Sarge lead the way. I felt a bit like a brow-beaten Sherpa by Monday. But we had fun. Of a funny sort. I suppose.

Dinner with the Ex was one highlight, I have to say. The truth is, he made a much better showing than I could have imagined. We're still a handsome couple. Mom provided the entertainment. She's a bit shy at first, but after she gets a couple of cosmos in her she starts telling tales. Some of the ones she got to telling Friday night even I hadn't heard. That's what happens, innit? Your mother doesn't have any reason to tell you about all the times you wet the bed. She waits until your boyfriend — or worse: your ex-boyfriend — is around.

Lucky for me I was the perfect baby, except for the little issue of gender. I had often suspected that my mother wanted a girl — it must have been all those frilly laces and bows she used to dress me in — but had never heard it from the horse's mouth. Until last Friday night after cosmo number three, that is. I must have known I was on shaky ground with her from the day they induced labor, ten months on, because apparently I kept my mouth shut and didn't make any waves once I was forcibly ejected from her womb.

I never cried in the night. Went about my business with a minimum of fuss. She assured the ex I was extraordinarily quick and easy to potty train. A potty prodigy, in fact. Even as a toddler I knew life doesn't really begin until you have bowel control. That's the key.

Another highlight for me was dinner at Casa Romero in Back Bay, at the invitation of Iory and Leo Romero, the owner and chef.  A kind and generous gesture I was deeply appreciative of, as it gave us all something to really look forward to. And the meal itself was, of course, superb. Iory joined us for cocktails and Leo dropped by for a short chat before manning the door, as he does.

But someone flipped mom's Jesus switch about midway through the enchiladas poblanas and she was witnessing to the terrace to beat the band. I can't remember how it all started, but my aunt egged her on by arguing that the Bible was the work of men, not the word of God. That's all it took. My aunt knows how to wind her up good, and once she got going, bless her little tequila-soaked heart, all we'd have needed was a tent and a few "amens!" from the crowd on the terrace and we'd have had an old time revival.

You know, I'm all for people speaking their minds — even speaking in tongues — just not while I'm eating. I'm of the school where you don't talk politics at the dinner table. Unless you can be absolutely assured everyone at the table agrees over them. There's no situation I can think of where whatever you're fighting over could be more important than the meal itself. Arguing over politics or religion neither makes the food taste any better nor aids in digestion. It is particularly odious to declaim in a way that upstages the meal or disturbs the meals of others.

I guess I should be grateful that this was the first my mother had gotten worked into such a state, and we were almost two full days in. But the next morning I met them for brunch and we had to rehash it. I still have little, if any, interest in either argument, which is basically what I'd told them the night before. I did suggest a book to my mother about the history of the New Testament and how it ended up the way it did, in the hope that we could defer further discussion until she'd read it. Later, back at the hotel, my aunt told her that that just proved I was on my aunt's side.

Actually, it was an exercise in etiquette. You should never talk about what you think over an evening meal. You talk about what other people think over dinner. Preferably people who aren't at dinner. That way there's no one to throw food at, which is how you avoid food fights. And we did manage to finish dinner without flinging enchiladas and mole sauce at one another. But for the next two days my aunt kept declaring I was an "avoider". I like to call it "choosing your battles," but I'm certainly not ashamed to say some things should be avoided.

Again, bowel control's the key.

Still, we did reasonably well for three of the most unreasonably willful people I know. Survival is nothing to scoff at.