This evening's post comes courtesy of David over at authorblog:
authorblog: Weekend Wandering
He poses the question: Do you have an embarrassing relative?
I noticed that many of the respondents on his blog could not answer the question on their own blogs because it might embarrass said embarrassing relative. I am fortunate in that most of my family doesn't read my blog, and if they do someday read this obscure little post and fret over it, I imagine they will get past it. May I add preemptively that I have often been the embarrassing little sister, the embarrassing daughter, and the embarrassing Mom? I will take full credit for having my eccentricities and oddness, and I love all of it. My feeling is that I must be who I am, just as the following relatives must be who they are:
My oldest brother is the winner and is definitely not for the faint of heart. When he moved out to live with us (to find an East coast job) I brought him along to a costume party at a friend's house. He got into the spirit of it and put on a clown nose and let me paint up his face. I was a vampire, as I remember, in full regalia. Embarrassing enough? No? Well, he went around telling my friends all evening that he had wanted to wear nothing but roller skates and come as a pull toy. When bawdy humor doesn't work, he resorts to puns involving barnyard animals. It would behoove you to know that, hyuk, hyuk.
I have a story about my daughter and a game of charades (and she was old enough to know better), but I'm sorry. I can't write about it here. It was far TOO embarrassing.
I have relatives who are addicted to substances. That is embarrassing, but only if I get dragged into their drama, which I try not to do. Besides, that is more sad than embarrassing. (We have annual contests for the black sheep award in my family each year).
I have hillbilly cousins. They will never read this because they are not "into" computers. The first time in memory that I visited their house, my mother had to shoo the chicken out of the open window of the bathroom so that she could make my little five-year-old butt connect with the toilet seat. Of course, she had to render the bathroom free of chicken dung first. I begged them to never take me back there.
Guess what we ate for lunch that day?
Yep. Fried chicken. But I'm pretty sure it wasn't the pisspot chicken.
Peace - D