Family Picture

Since I went anonymous, I can’t offer pictures of my family.  But I decided this week that what I could do is offer a description of the people who made me who I am today so you’ll know who to blame. 

It won’t be so much a physical description, because if I did that, you wouldn’t be sure if I was talking about a horse farm or people.  Instead, in the spirit of summer’s impending arrival, I’ll give a small collection of anecdotes (Little sis, that means “stories”) from some of our many summer gatherings at my dad’s house. 

And I think you’ll get the picture…

The Ice Cream Truck

Since Dad makes us all gather to pay homage to his favorite child—whom we have been instructed to call The Golden Child—when he’s in town on leave from his military duties by requiring us to spend at least one weekend per leave assignment basking in his glow, I decided to take advantage last year and take both of my kids so that Dad could babysit while I drank some beer with The Golden Child.

That afternoon as Mom, Dad, a couple of my nephews, and my kids and I were waiting for The Golden Child to rise (he was not to be bothered before the hour of 2:00 PM--no shit), we heard the distinctive tinkle of the ice cream truck's songs.

I shit you not, my mom heaved herself from her sitting position on the floor and hauled ass outside, knocking over a few kids in the mix. I yanked my infant's carseat out of the way just in time, but my nephew was not so lucky. I don’t know when his cracked tooth will fall out or if those eyes will cross back. I do know that my older sister’s kinda pissed.

When Mom came back inside with her prize, my dad shot her an annoyed glance.

"Seriously, Wanda," he complained. "Who the hell ever heard of an ice cream that costs $4.00 from a truck?"

"Is it a lobster cone?" I asked.

"No," Mom replied, licking the cone in a way that was almost embarrassing for everyone in the room to see. I covered my preschooler’s eyes. "This one's made of turtle."

Poor turtle. Glad it was dead or it would have lasting mental consequences from the abuse Mom was putting it through.

"You mean it's a turtle cone, with the caramel and stuff...Who bought it?" I asked.

Dad gave me his well-practiced withered look as he stuffed the change Mom had given him back into his wallet. "Who do you think?"

“At least I gave you the change this time,” Mom said without looking up from her cone.

"What, they didn't have any surf-and-turf cones, Mom? No butter sauce? Caviar sprinkles?  Diamond-encrusted salmon dips?" I asked. But she was too busy licking to answer.

"I hope she enjoys it now," Dad grumbled. "She keeps eating like this, my savings will be depleted. Hope she doesn't want a damned lobster cone when she's 85."

Yes, you do remember correctly.  They are divorced and have been for almost 22 years.  But they’ve known each other since they were neighbors at 11 and 14 years old, so I guess some things will never change…

 
Who's Your Daddy?
I’ve talked about our favorite question-and-answer game before here, but in our family it simply never gets old.

So every time we have a bit of wine, we get into an excited discussion about who our various real dads might be.  It’s like our own little game show.

It used to make Mom mad when we wanted to play, and she’d get all defensive (“I didn’t cheat THAT much!”), acting like a big spoilsport as she crossed her arms over her chest and refused to take part in the guessing.

But somewhere along the line, I guess she figured if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  Now when she hears those glorious words, “Who’s Your Daddy?” she sits straight up in her chair at full attention and flaps her arms in front of her body in excitement.  "Okay,” she’ll say.  "Which kid are we starting with?  Which year? Oh, there are so many options for that year…"  Then her eyes will glaze over just a bit as she relives happy cheating memories.

Usually while all this is happening, Dad is just shaking his head, probably lamenting the fact that regardless of what any DNA tests that we would all refuse to take anyway would say, he’s stuck with this huge group of mismatched dumbasses for the rest of his life.

Shit, Dad, what did you do in a former life to deserve the lot you were handed in this one??  ;)

“Who Gives a Shit?”

This saying, which quickly became a family favorite, originated from a combination of three factors during  a typical summer night’s gathering on my dad’s screened-in back porch last year:

1.)  Mom and Dad were 24-hour babysitting, so I took full advantage of my freedom and drank a few (too many) beers

2.)  One of my old college roommates was visiting, so I was showing off

3.)  The friends my sister-in-law brought by were total douchebags who walked in and immediately started complaining about the lack of their favorite beer on the back porch, even though they hadn’t even been invited—and my dad had splurged on several different kinds of glorious beers that were good enough for the rest of us

The complaints didn’t end there, though, and I’d had enough within the first five minutes of their arrival.  My dad is the kindest, most generous, most-tolerant-of-our-stupid-asses person there ever was, and I’ll be damned if some strangers were going to ruin it for the rest of us.

So when my sister-in-law finally introduced them to us by name, saying, “Everybody, this is Justin, Amanda, and Noel,” I responded, “Who gives a shit?” as I shook Justin’s hand.

I learned the next day that this is also a really great response in the comments section of ANY Facebook status update.  (Just be careful when you use it, because paybacks from your cyberbully friends are a BITCH.)

I was pretty proud of myself for the quick a-hole response, but at the same time, I felt kind of bad. I know he deserved it, but despite the snark you read in this blog, I’m actually very nice in person.  (Okay, and snarky—but in a sweet way, right?)

But I had to suck it up and put on an asshole face. Remember, I was showing off for my college roommate. I didn't want her to think that I'd--GASP--matured since our collegiate days of big Bud Lights and small standards. (And when I say "small standards," I'm talking about the guys we dated having small standards. Have you seen pictures of me from college?)

All showing off aside, I was extra nice to them for the rest of the night because I felt bad...even though they were total douchebags.  They got a little bit better as the night wore on…or else I just got a little bit drunker. Either way, they were palatable. 

Sort of.

But I must thank them for one of the best sayings ever…one now beloved by a family full of assholes.  It works for whatever the occasion:

“He finally proposed.  We’re getting married!”

“Who gives a shit?”

But seriously, we’re a big, loving family, and we all know what we truly mean when we say it.  We mean…well, we mean, Who gives a shit?

 

Joan Rivers
During one back porch night, my little brother insisted on calling his girlfriend Joan Rivers all night because of her most recent round of lip injections.

And although I couldn't help adding a little ribbing into the mix ("Dude, you live in the Midwest, not LA"), for the most part, I kept quiet. I didn't want to call attention to myself when someone else was getting made fun of. Because the more times everyone called her Joan Rivers, the less time they had to call me Pinocchio/Tori Spelling/Casper the Friendly Ghost/Skank.

But seriously, we only tease the ones we love, and although they have since broken up (Was it something we said?), we’ve stayed in touch with “Joan.”  She’s adorable and sweet and lovely, and she once told my sisters and me that one of the hardest parts of the breakup was knowing that she wouldn’t be marrying into our family. Love that girl.

Oh, and sorry for the gushing sentimentality.  I promise it won’t happen again.  As a consolation prize and to assure you that you’re reading the correct blog, I’ll add a bit old fat SUCK IT. 

There.  Better now?

Combover
One year, during a family barbeque, we took a series of pictures before all of us finally decided that we liked a certain one. The main holdout had been Dad, who kept grabbing the camera to take a look, then muttering, "My combover's not right."

Finally my older sister got sick of it. "When is a combover ever right?"

My Dad's Redheaded Stepchild

My brother’s best friend is really hard to make laugh.

No, I take that back. He laughs constantly, but it's usually either at his own jokes, at someone else's expense, or at one of his own jokes at someone else's expense.

So when The Golden Child made the smirky comment that he often hears his name yelled out during sex (ga-ROSS) and I said, "Yeah, because you're having it with yourself," and his best friend laughed, I could have exploded with pride right there on the spot.

And I pretty much did. "Redheaded Stepchild! You never laugh at my jokes! Did you hear that, everyone? He laughed at my joke!"

"It was just so quick," the redheaded stepchild (who truly does have bright, fiery orange hair) reveled, already mad at himself for letting the laughter loose. "You're normally not that good."

The Bronze Child

After one especially intense game of guessing the identity of our real fathers, my youngest brother threw his hands into the air. "What the hell does it matter? I'll always be The Bronze Child. How is that even possible when I only have one brother? There are only two of us...can I at least get an effing silver?"

We all just sighed and shook our heads in sadness for him.

“I think,” I mused aloud, “that you have to be one of Dad's biological children in order to medal.”

“He might be!” Dad—who, despite completely understanding what an idiot each one of us 5 children is, insists on claiming us all—shouted defensively.

Poor Bronze Child.

 

Don’t we sound lovely?  Now, who wants to join us for a back porch soiree?  :)

Just to clarify for any judgy readers I might have out there:  My siblings and I do not get soused while hanging out with our kids.  If we do drink at family gatherings, we first make a whole great day out of doing fun stuff with the kids and their cousins before putting them to bed and pulling out the coolers for some adult time, during which my parents do not drink because they are in charge of said sleeping children.  My sister hates it when I make these disclosures because it should all go without saying, but I have had some majorly literal readers in the past.  (Helloooo, mother-in-law!)