MOST THINGS CONSIDERED by Minx McCloud
My father’s cousin Jean, the matriarch of the family, recently turned 90, so on Sunday, 115 family members and friends gathered at a banquet hall in Connecticut.
I have not seen these folks since I was in college, so most of them were complete strangers to me. My cousin-twice-removed, LeeAnn, the birthday girl’s daughter, after several glasses of wine, grabbed a microphone and attempted to introduce everybody and explain who they were.
"This is Kay, Mother’s second cousin on her father’s side, and there’s her son Johnny at table six, next to his Auntie Nan, who is married to Uncle Joe. (Wave to everyone, Johnny!) Johnny’s wife, June, is pregnant with their ninth child! Show everyone your tummy, dear." ("Oohs" and "aahs." Clap clap clap.)
This went on for 23 stupefying minutes, during which I itched to slash my wrists with my butter knife. It was like being forced to listen to that book in the Bible with all the "begats" in it.
The gentleman next to me was a distant cousin, a southerner who greatly resembled Col. Sanders. He asked me about myself and my husband in a lilting Georgia accent.
After kicking back a few bourbons, he waxed eloquent about his first wife, who had died after a courageous but futile battle against cancer. While it was a moving story, I figured his second wife, Linda, would not want to hear it for probably the billionth time, so I tactfully changed the subject.
The subject I chose somehow led to burial arrangements for Linda, who, although born in Connecticut would be spending eternity next to "Col. Sanders" (I never did catch his name) in the "great state of Georgia." (Apparently, the colonel hadn’t caught my name either, because I was "Melissa," "Marcy" and "Missy" throughout the party.)
A few more bourbons, and he began a discourse on the effect presidential pets have on an election. I couldn’t recall any mention of pets owned by Gore or Bush, but it turns out the colonel was talking about "the greatest president who ever lived, Franklin Delano," and his dog, Fala. We also touched on Nixon’s dog Checkers and the beagle LBJ picked up by the ears.
Regrettably, this fascinating conversation was terminated by an order from LeeAnn to file out to the "grand staircase," where a harried photographer tried to take a group picture.
Many of Jean’s friends and family members are really, really old, and LeeAnn, a bit of an obsessive-compulsive, kept moving people around based on the color of their clothes. Then she tried it by age. Then by family status.
Each time, the old folks hobbled off obediently to the other side of the staircase with their walkers and canes, only to be moved again two minutes later.
The entire time, Jim and I stood in our place by the banister, which was bordered by roses with thorns that pricked my ankles. At that point, I would have been thrilled if the thorns had been dipped in curare. I just wanted the madness to end.
After the picture was taken, the photographer slipped me his card and told me he’d relocate to New Jersey if he could just get a job at my newspaper.
Such is the effect my family has on people.
During dinner, Jim decided my pork looked better than his chicken, so he asked if we could trade. I was willing, because my pork was the color of a blushing bride’s cheek. Visions of trichinosis danced through my head. Luckily for me, Jim is colorblind.
I think he suspects that I pulled a fast one though, because I keep asking him if there are small worms under his skin. That’s an odd question, even from someone with my family background.
It appears that my male relatives have not let time dull their lecherous tendencies. It was obvious that it doesn’t matter if a woman is fat, graying and 50, as long as she is amply endowed. I am still the object of their incestuous jokes, except now, I’m a lot quicker than they are.
I spent my college years staving off the advances of my second cousin Vinny, who pursued me at every family gathering. At Jean’s party, his sister solemnly informed me that "our precious Vincent" had died two years ago. I stifled the urge cut a caper on the dance floor.
And so, the party dragged on until dessert was served. It was a mistake to ask people to come up to the Viennese table before the birthday cake was cut. Poor old Jean stood there with the cake knife in her hand as 115 people bore down on the other desserts like a pack of hungry hyenas. In short order, there was nothing left but crumbs and a bewildered old woman standing by the cake.
Then the birthday cake was cut and the stampede began all over again. Some families drink themselves into a stupor; my relatives sugar themselves into oblivion. Practically everyone has diabetes. There was enough insulin at this party to stabilize a mastodon.
However, in spite of the strain of insanity that seems to run throughout my family, I came away with a sense of self and an awareness of my family background.
I also experienced a vast feeling of relief, because these lovable loons aren’t related to me by blood.
I’m adopted.
Minx McCloud is a free-lance journalist who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at [email protected].