There’s an old saying: “You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family.” I prefer to think of family a lot like picking your nose—you’re always going to find one big booger.”
Every family tree has a few bad seeds, the kind of genetic breakdowns that lead to unibrows or a third nipple on a foot. Just look at the British Royal Family: some are happy in their palaces, but a few are chained up in stables, mumbling to a wandering third eye.
We all have that one relative we avoid during the holidays, the one who's put root rot in the family tree. Parents whisper about them when planning family events, nervously asking, "Should we invite her? Remember the last time? She complained about the food, burned holes in the sofa, clogged the toilet, and then ran over the cat's tail.”
Because they're family, we're told to show compassion. “After all, it's your sister. We can just keep her outside with the dog. I think there's an extra leash."
Sometimes, we hope an outside force will solve the problem. "The way she smokes and hacks up a lung, she won't be around much longer," they say with their fingers crossed. Remember, blood is thicker than water—even when it's drying on a corpse.
We roll our eyes and bite our tongues, but how long can you drool blood before it’s time for a headlock and a bitch slap? When the last nerve has been frayed, it’s time to abort the relationship. Unless, of course, they’ve left you a cherished family heirloom in their will. In that case, a few crushed Xanax in their Manhattan should keep them at bay.
I had an aunt whose photo was in the post office. WANTED BY THE FBI (Family Banishment Initiative): For Murdering Good Times, Killing the Moment, and Smothering the Last Ounce of Kindness. BEWARE: This lady is armed with snide comments, bad intentions, and inappropriate behavior. Approach the perpetrator with EXTREME caution—gird your loins!
She’s not among the living now—someone accidentally threw water on her. This makes it much easier to “spill the tea.” I live by words from Steel Magnolias, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.” That’s why I own a sectional sofa. There’s plenty of room to cozy up and dish.
My father’s sister, let’s call her “Auntie Social,” was born in rural New Jersey on All Hallows Eve during an electrical storm, with an accompanying tornado and a circling murder of crows. A breech birth of humanity, she came into the world horns first.
Not a popular child, she spent time in the woods with the Jersey Devil. He spent hours trying to hide from her, as did every other forest creature. He did take her to the prom. A cursed child never has many dating options. Their couple photo, which she kept on her nightstand, is forever embedded in my mind. But I must give the little devil credit—his choice of a tux coordinated nicely with his leathery bat wings and cloven hoofs.
Auntie Social’s childhood was a mix of a Hitler Youth correspondence course and the Devil’s Etiquette Handbook. In high school, she was a chemistry prodigy, treating the lab like her own kitchen. She repeatedly exploded the room while perfecting her special recipes for chocolate bombs. Later, her high school notes were sent to Oppenheimer.
She wasn’t a beauty, though her female classmates called her a “man-eater.” She snagged two husbands, or victims—the words are interchangeable. The first, she divorced—according to the police report. The second died, though no one ever saw the body. She was known as “the Caucasian Arachnoid.”
It was a blessing she never had children; Dr. Mengele had better child-rearing skills. Her viper-filled womb held no maternal instincts, yet a deep-seated itch for something to covet festered in her brainstem.
For her, the "milk of human kindness" was a powdered, non-dairy substitute. She was the oldest of three siblings, and she never showed affection to her brother, my father. It was a classic case of "Mom always liked you best."
When my dad got all the attention, the bad seed dropped skunkweed everywhere. In a failed attempt to reclaim her dominance, she pushed him down the basement stairs. He was only bruised, but she was furious. Her Grinch-sized heart festered with anger, and she saw my dad as the cause.
I was part of a perfect nuclear family: a mother, father, son, and daughter. Dad had everything she did not. Now shove envy into her emotional baggage. Instead of rejecting us, she would play the doting aunt to ensnare me and my sister.
My sister was her first pawn. Auntie would dangle material objects my parents couldn’t afford, making herself the object of affection. The “Queen of Mean” was building her fortress of schemes.
Eight years later, a proclamation was issued when my mom gave birth to my dad’s namesake. Auntie Social was so excited to have a mini version of her brother to manipulate that her cigarette-fueled cackle broke the glass of several neighbors' windows.
For some curious reason, I believed she liked me. Her feelings fell somewhere on the spectrum of having a root canal and owning a rainbow unicorn—from best to worst. There were never any signs of affection—not a pat on the head or a kiss on the cheek, just a roundhouse kick to the jaw. Still, she bought my back-to-school clothes, took me to see the holiday decorations in Philly, and gave me gifts and tickets to ice skating shows. She spun her web, and I was cocooned.
I became her grade-school escort, riding shotgun in her Chevy Impala to lunch, dinner, or her witch coven meetings. Auntie had a color television before my parents did, and its glow was a siren song; I couldn’t resist. I spent many evenings watching programs in living color while she chain-smoked and sucked down bottles of Coke. It was a treat to be offered a bottle of her favorite drink, one I’m convinced still contained cocaine. I’d wake up the next day in my bed with no memory of how I left her fortress.
Being with her felt like a twisted version of Hansel and Gretel. She fed me treats, but there was always a feeling of unease. Her main goal was one-upping my father. I don’t think I ever saw her truly happy. The only time she cracked a smile was when she ran over a squirrel with her lawnmower.
Eventually, I grew too old to be her companion. I had my friends, and it felt strange to tell them I had to go with my aunt to spit on people's graves. She held a grudge against everyone, and being alone only made her more bitter.
Years of smoking led to emphysema, and she became known as "Auntie Wheezy." While I could feel a certain compassion for her—something she never showed anyone else—there was an upside: she couldn’t stab you in the back because you heard her coming.
She moved to Sun City, Arizona, for her health and was pricklier than all the cacti there. I never saw her again. She never invited me to visit. Her final years were spent with an oxygen tank and an occasional visit from my other, more likable aunt.
When she passed, the funeral was in New Jersey. The service could have been held in the funeral home’s coat closet. Out of respect, we were the only mourners, and “no one mourns the wicked.” During the whole affair, I swear I could still hear wheezing coming from the casket. At the gravesite, the holy water sizzled on the lid when the clergyman said a final prayer.
Later, my father, sister, and I learned we were mentioned in her will. We were to receive nothing from her estate—a perfectly fitting final act. She was venomous until her tank ran out of air.
In the end, it was better not to have received anything. Her sister received all the tainted goods and, as a result, became cursed. She gave my father the cold shoulder and became Auntie Freeze. She moved to Florida with my uncle, imitating the cackle all the way. Before they learned she had passed away, my parents received several letters signed in blood.
Take care of your family tree and keep an eye out for parasitic growths and disease symptoms. Although you might fear harming its integrity, it’s better to cut loose the diseased branches. I wish our family had been better gardeners. If we had done some early pruning, I wouldn’t still be frightened awake by the hissing echo of another Coke bottle being opened.
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