Cousins Are People Too

My parents grew up in the same small town. When I say small town I mean no stoplights; elementary, middle and high school housed in one brick building; and, at least in the case of my extended family, inadvertent small town incest.

My aunt is the first cousin of my uncle.

Sounds pretty iffy, yes?

If we tease it out further: one of my uncles is married to the first cousin of another one of my uncles.

Yup, my dad's brother is married to the cousin of my dad's brother-in-law.

That is, my dad's brother is married to my mom's sister's husband's cousin.

If we were to break it down into a fake equation, it would look something like this:
[Maternal Aunt + Her Husband] + [Paternal Uncle + His Wife], where Her Husband and His Wife = First Cousins = 
Inadvertent Small Town Incest.

So what comes of such a situation? Nothing interesting at all. Except, when at the wedding of my cousin, I have to explain how my aunt from the other side of my family is in attendance because she happens to be my cousin's second cousin. That conversation can get a little awkward when you factor in an open bar.

******

I, too, grew up in a (different) small town and attended the same school as two of my (other) cousins. There were a total of 450 people in my high school - my cousins and I shared little interaction and graduated 3 or 4 years apart.

One holiday break, a few years into college, I had dinner with the family of good high school friend. I listened as my friend's mother told the saga of their farmhand (another one of my schoolmates) and his disintegrating marriage - it seems some "married floozy" had been carrying on with him and had convinced him to leave his wife, "a very sweet girl" who, by all accounts, was "criminally heartbroken."

I expressed my sympathy for the wife and wondered aloud who the married floozy might be (it was a small town, after all - perhaps we knew each other). The conversation quickly veered to a new topic as I continued to inhale my deliciously free meal and the night eventually ended when our respective gossip coffers ran dry.

Imagine my surprise a few days later when my cousin arrived at our annual Christmas gathering with a man who was not her husband. Rather, her guest happened to be one of our former schoolmates...and the farmhand of the family with whom I had recently dined.

Floozies are cousins too.

King Husband / My Very Hairy Toddler

Despite his parents' entirely middle-class existence, Husband was raised as royalty.  Mother-in-law often pridefully boasts of her housewifery and mothering skills by relaying that Husband never even had to pour his own cereal in the morning until he moved away for college. Basically, Husband had a staff (of one) to meet his every single need until he was in his 20s.  As a result, it's simply a fact that Husband lacks a lot of pretty basic life skills.  Well, I mean, he can breath and eat and all that other autonomic stuff, but he is a college-educated professional who cannot run a washer or a dryer, doesn't know where the trash room is in our complex and has to ask every time he wants to heat up soup how to use the microwave.  

Husband also suffers from a debilitating disease known (to me, because I made it up) as Profound Laziness. As you can imagine, when one suffers from "PF" and has a former life as the Prince of Constitution Drive, tasks like closing cupboard doors, disposing of empty toilet paper rolls or kicking one's shoes out of the motherfucking middle of the hall can seem truly impossible/insulting.

(A disclaimer: he does iron his own clothes (after I yell from the bedroom how to turn on the goddamned iron,) makes his own breakfast and consistently walks that dogs at night.  Also, when he was between jobs a few years ago he also took up cooking and can grill the shit out of any protein you want to eat.  I obviously like to eat, so that works out well for me occasionally.)

All this to say that Husband has agreed to make dinner tonight.  Who wants to bet that we end up going out to eat? :)

Origin Story

7 years ago Sunday, two drunks met gazes in a sleazy bar and determined that they would spend the rest of their lives annoying the holy living shit out of each other.  


Well, actually, one of us tried to steal the other's pitcher of beer in an effort to get the attention of the other's pretty little blonde friend.  Good the thing the friend lists filthy black turtlenecks as one of her main turn-offs.

Drunky Time Problem Solving I

Prereqs (this is complicated)

• Live in an "up and coming" 'burb where the pizza places won't deliver after midnight because their drivers might get shot by the neighbors who haven't quite "up and came."
• Have a griddler/panini maker/Jorje Foreman grill because your snooty, boug-y apartment complex doesn't allow actual patio-dwelling barbeque grills.
• Possess a hankering for pizza that can only be justified by the steady drinking of alcoholic beverages for 4-6 hours prior.

Ingredients

• Soft Taco Shells
• Spaghetti Sauce
• Pesto
• Shredded Cheese
• Frozen (pre-cooked) Chicken Strips

Directions
Any rah-tard can figure this part out.


Things to do while your griddler warms up

• Remove all of your husband's beer bottles from the trash and place in the recycling bin.
• Remind yourself that the man can't even conceptualize a "clean side" and "dirty side" of the sink and forgive him the recycling bin trespasses.
• Turn on the Scentsy warmer in an attempt to cover up the salmony smell emitting from your warming griddler.  (This step only works if you are using the obnoxiously floral-scented wax you received for Christmas from an unnamed in-law.) 
• Turn on the ceiling fan and crack open the back door.  (See above.)
• Ponder the rules for punctuation within parenthetical statements.
• Realize that the instructions for this particular problem-solving episode are too lengthy for a text message and resolve to finally start the blog that you've been promising yourself you would start for the last 3-4 years.
• Think about names for the aforementioned blog and resolve to name it after an inside Portlandia joke that only your sister-in-law will get.
• Realize that you can't share the blog address with your sister-in-law because you will probably use the space to make fun of her mother.  Resolve to use that title anyway.
• Justify the impending consumption of the fatty, delicious food that you are cooking by reminding yourself that your boobs are still bigger than your stomach, if only for a few more weeks.

Things to do after you have problem-solved your way out of this specific pizza-craving
Stream The Big Lebowski on Netflix for the 6783rd time while enjoying your culinary delight.


Aaaaaaaaaaaand scene.