When people ask me if I have any family beyond the Extra-Terrestrial Being from Outer Space (aka, the Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest), I say no. After all, I’m an only child and so is she.
Of course, there’s a crazy web of cousins out there whom I don’t really acknowledge. I grew up barely knowing them and, frankly, I’ve endured enough time with most of them (mostly at funerals) to understand why my grandmother kept me far, far away from them.
Now, it’s no secret that I found myself job-free at the end of last year. And even though these yahoos never once picked up a phone to see how I’m doing or ask what happened, I am apparently the most-interesting person on earth right now to two dozen people who share my last name.
A cousin went to see her sister in a nursing home over the weekend. The one in the home proudly announced, “Did you hear? Goddess got FIRED. Good for her! She’s RICH. She DESERVES to learn how hard life can be!”
Needless to say, if that bitch wasn’t lying in a bed immobile, I’d have made sure she never walked again.
Seriously? They all know I was born in the projects, sharing a tiny rowhouse with four generations of my own family and a cousin and her infant daughter. I had NOTHING my whole life. I worked three jobs at a time to put myself through school. I had roommates my whole life (and I hate roommates). Then I took on my mother and all her expenses. It was only in the last two years that I could pay my bills and have a tiny little something extra for me. Fuck her. Fuck all of them.
Rich, I am not. Nor was I. I’d like to be — I still haven’t given up hope yet. But who the fuck is that asshole to say it would be good for me to be penniless? What, because I haven’t sent her money? What the hell has any of them ever done to help me?
Before I blow a gasket, I do need to breathe and remind myself that this is why I was so driven in my life. So I wouldn’t need to beg anyone for a handout. Because I knew for the past 20-odd years that my mother would never be able to live on her own. Because my asshole cousin in the hospital bed used to drain the life out of my grandfather and mother to run all her stupid errands while she sat on her tuffet and promised compensation that never materialized.
I remember my grandfather’s funeral circa Thanksgiving 2006. Said cousin made a grand entrance into the funeral parlor in a wheelchair with her foul-mouthed, loud-ass boyfriend. She expected a queen’s welcome and was visibly (and audibly) chagrined that nobody rushed to worship her.
She tried to make the event all about her, but nobody was buying it. I didn’t even speak to her. She’d taken enough of my grandfather and mother’s time. She wasn’t getting any of mine.
And all these years later, to hear her talking behind my back, wow. I realize that even though my immediate family contained damn-near saints (for how nice they all were), I have a genetic mean streak that is a mile long. It’s a daily act to suppress it or, in my case, redirect it into something creative and useful.
But I am reminded why I don’t talk to these assholes — they will take your words and twist them, or else make up the stories that suit their evil imaginations.
To her credit, the cousin doing the visiting snapped at her sister, “If your lazy ass had ever worked a day in your miserable life, you would know that there’s a difference between being LET GO and fired. If you can’t get a story straight, don’t talk!”
LOL. Go, cousin! Of course, she lit up the family phone tree after she left the nursing home, so I won’t get too excited. But information (false or otherwise) is currency in this family.
And frankly, I’m GLAD they thought I was doing so well. Let them talk. Let all those boozers, users and abusers cast stones. You think I can’t tell stories about them? Bitch, please. If they think that I’m better than them, they’re right.
Sure, there are a couple who are pretty decent people. But it’s not worth it to reach out to them when they are securely positioned in the poisonous phone tree. It’s such a shame that my lovely grandparents are gone and yet these morons still pollute the earth.
I’ve always had my mind set on keeping my last name when I get married. After all, my mom gave me my first name, my grandmother gave me my middle name, and I have my grandfather’s last name. It means a lot to me. But to disassociate from this clown posse? I may have to put the cart before the horse and go change my name legally before I meet Mr. Right. Anything to not be grouped with the uppity trash in my bloodline.
“And although there’s pain in my chest
I still wish you the best
With a ‘fuck you.'”