Keeping It All in the Family

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Keeping It All in the Family
by Lisa Woelry

To my mother: I apologize for embarrassing you.
To all other relatives: Truth hurts, doesn't it?

I knew from very early on that I had some real fruitloops lurking in my bloodline. My father was German/Finish and my mother is Russian/French Canadian/Cherokee. With that heritage, I should be at bare minimum a raging alcoholic by now.

But somehow I became the black sheep of both sides of my family because I am the only person besides my mother and one uncle to possess a work ethic and common sense. It also seems quite reasonable in light of my extended family's history that I am one of a privileged handful never to have spent a night in the county jail.

I have naturally changed names to protect the guilty, but all stories are true and unembellished. Let us take a look at some of my more colorful relatives.

Aunt Sally is a paranoid schizophrenia who refuses to take medication. She spends her days painting her nails, smoking Winstons, and drinking grape Kool-Aid. Several years ago, during a particularly violent episode, she pulled a loaded gun on my mother because Sally was convinced that her scrawny husband Earl was having an affair with my mom. Sally recently sent all of her siblings a letter written on Hardee's napkins. The letter was in code that only Sally understood. It could have been a recipe for oatmeal raisin cookies or it could have been an Unibomber diatribe. Only time will tell. Her daughter is the poster girl for welfare. She sporadically works menial jobs, has about five Rottweilers patrolling the parameter of her doublewide, and has three very sour-looking children. And yep, you guessed it! The sourpuss kids are all by different fathers. God bless America.

My cousin Jack's wife is an embezzler. She avoided jail time by paying a hefty fine and by completing more hours of community service than I spent in classes during all of my undergrad years. Here's the kicker: She embezzled from the state, and the state was so oblivious to her sticky finger problem that she wasn't caught until a full two years after she began supplementing her income. I hold my purse close to my side during Christmas dinners now.

My second cousin Linda can't make up her mind if she's gay or straight. Mom tries to keep me updated on Linda's current sexual preference, and that's no easy feat. Linda currently lives with her lesbian life partner and her ex-boyfriend in a dilapidated trailer that sits on the edge of a cornfield. Last I heard they had no running water. All three of them work at a take-out pizzeria/tattoo parlor. Free enterprise at its best, I suppose, but I would be confused. Should I order a large pepperoni or should I get Tweety Bird tattooed on my ass? Should I sleep with my lesbian lover or my ex-boyfriend tonight?

Aunt Jane and uncle Sam spend their winters down south, and one winter mom and I flew down to stay with them. I was sixteen at the time, so hanging out with middle-aged relatives was not my idea of entertainment. But I soon discovered just how fun this vacation could be when I sat down in a rocking chair one evening and prepared to watch television. Aunt Jane rumbled into the living room, floors sighing under her massive weight, and firmly demanded that I remove myself from the lap of George. Huh? Turns out aunt Jane thinks her winter house is inhabited by the ghost of George, and the rocking chair was all his. She knew his name was George because her alphabet magnets mysteriously spelled out that name one morning on her fridge. I asked permission to sit on the sofa instead, and aunt Jane said that would be fine. The sofa was too soft for George's back, she said. I spent the rest of my vacation sitting on her back porch, watching for gators in the waterway. George stressed me out too much.

My favorite cousin Billy is the epitome of a bad boy. He's probably my only relative whom I actually enjoy spending time with, but he does seem to get me in trouble. We've been kicked out of casinos and bars more times than I can remember. His mouth gets him in trouble, and I get caught up in the fray. He's single-handedly caused me to be in more scuffles than Sean Penn, but I always come back for more. I'm constantly amazed that Billy has never made it on Cops. One time, after a drunken binge, he was arrested and placed in the back of the squad car. Billy was not a happy camper. He kicked out the side window of the car. No more craps shooting evenings for me and Billy after that little hissyfit. Billy had himself a new county jail roomy named Needles, who was in for shooting his wife in the foot. Needles is probably a cousin of mine.

This is my blood, folks. Please pray for me.