So the other day I had lunch with my dad and he asked me why I never talk about his side of the family. Because his family DOES offer a lot in the material department. But I told him I really don’t feel comfortable bagging his side of the family. I only feel OK doing that to my husband and kids.

Call me a sensitive softy.

And he then proceeded to tell me stories about *parts* of his family that made me rethink my whole *sensitive* side.

So here goes, Dad.

My dad has 3 brothers. And he is the youngest. Some might argue that that would make him the favorite. Instead I would say he’s lucky he got out alive. And somewhat normal (whatever that means).

His oldest brother is named Darrell.

And Darrell is what you might call…hmm….what’s the word…………..um…………..interesting.

You know how when you’re joking with someone and he/she might say something strange or act bizarre and you ask if he/she was dropped on his/her head when he/she was a baby? And you’re serious but he/she laughs and thinks you’re joking?

But you’re not?

Well, my uncle Darrell thinks you’re talking about blue pancakes.

Like. For serious.

I imagine the conversation my grandparents had with the doctor when he was younger. They take him to see a specialist because he’s “different” and the doctor sits them down in his office and points to the x-ray and says, “You see this black space where the other half of his brain should be?” and they’re all, “OHHHHH. Well, that explains a lot.”

Yeah. That’s Darrell.

And I only tell you this because I feel it’s important that you know where I come from. You know, for those days you don’t quite “get” where I’m coming from. Yes. I’m looking for someone to blame.

So I totally blame Uncle Darrell.

In fact, when I was growing up my step mom would tease us and say, “Well at least I don’t have DGs (Darrell’s Genes). I would be so offended and horrified that I would start crying. Because there was no denying it. I’ve totally got the DGs.

A few years ago my Uncle Darrell was in a car accident. And crazily enough, it wasn’t his fault. He was hurt and received a somewhat large settlement. And because he is “interesting” my family was afraid for him to have access to that kind of money, so they asked my dad to be in charge of it.

Lucky him.

Uncle Darrell has lived with my grandparents for most of his life. Except for those times he’d meet a woman at the bowling alley and marry her after only knowing her for 30 minutes (I think he’s been married 7 times). During his *marriages* he’d move in with the lucky gal, giving my grandparents a much needed mini vacation. And then just as soon as they would get used to Life Without Darrell, he’d find his way on their doorstep again, claiming the woman was a nutjob. My grandparents would sigh heavily and unbolt the door.

It’s not like Uncle Darrell is retarded or anything. No. That would be an insult to retarded people. He’s just bizarrely unaware of reality beyond preschool. I mean, the man still eats crayons. But only the brown ones. And I *may* or *may not* be exaggerating. But dammit, everything tastes better with Tabasco.

So. After the car accident/settlement he was given a monthly allowance. And was told that any money given after that would be on an “emergency” basis. Needless to say there have been a lot of “emergencies.” Emergency bowling ball. Emergency overalls. Emergency pen that writes upside down. Once, he called my dad and when he answered, yelled out, “I need to get to my money!” Dad, taken aback asked, “What’s wrong? What do you need money for?” And Uncle Darrell said, “I need hair transplants!!!” My dad, trying not to laugh, said, “Darrell, you can’t have your money unless it’s an emergency.” To which Darrell replied, “THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!! I’M LOSING MY HAIR!!!” And so that is how the first ever “Emergency Hair Transplant” legislation hit the senate floor.

You should all thank Uncle Darrell.

ok, here goes. my dad has been anxiously waiting for the day i say something about his family. i haven’t before because a. there could be an entire blog dedicated to them and their retarded antics; and b. i have to spend SOME time with my family.

my grandparents on my dad’s side have passed away–my grandmother (grandma) died nearly 8 years ago suddenly (heart attack or stroke) and my grandfather (papaw) died last summer. they were delightful people–my grandmother was very sweet and loved the grandchildren. there are 9 and only one of us is in prison for life. those are pretty good odds right? after their deaths, we stopped seeing each other–not me and my grandparents–that is morbid!–me and the rest of the family. and i think it’s because we have absolutely nothing in common. some of us live in fort worth and some of us live out of state. of the grandchildren i would have to say i’m the most “normal” one of the bunch–my brothers included. and yes, i know that’s subjective. after all, i am the one who thinks “ball sack” is the funniest word on the planet–AND don’t forget my site gets linked with words like puntane and smelly vagina. so “normal” is all relative. and my relatives are not. i’m just saying if my family had to pick out the person who most resembled normal, it would be me. i think. but my brothers probably think they’re normal too. ok, let’s just say that my brothers and i are the most normal of the bunch.

anyway, growing up around my dad’s family always made for interesting conversation later. my dad has 3 brothers and the oldest one is clearly retarded. i used to ask, “is uncle darryl ok? because he keeps asking me how my mom and dad are, and well, you’re both standing right here. who is he talking about?” it seems he was confusing me with my mother. and then he would say, “how old are you now? 19?” and that was when i was 7, 13, 21, 28 and 34. maybe that was the only number he knows? at first i thought he was kidding around with me and i would laugh and play along. then after the billionth time it became clear that he wasn’t joking–he didn’t appear to be able to joke. he wasn’t quite clever enough. sad really. but not sad enough that i won’t talk about him some more.

uncle darryl is not the world’s most handsome man or cool with the ladies. although he has been married 8 times–or maybe it’s 9 by now. and the women he’s brought home were not the sharpest tools in the shed. nope. the marriages never lasted much longer than the expiration date on a gallon of milk. and that’s why at sixty something, he still lived with my grandparents. in fact, the only time i know that he lived away from them is when he would get married. i’m sure my grandparents partied and danced through the house naked, only to have him show up a few weeks later, duffel bag in hand and say, “mom, dad, i’m home. what’s for dinner?”

uncle darryl also loves to walk around without his teeth. have you ever tried to talk to someone who doesn’t have teeth? it’s very distracting–and gross. fyi: no one wants to see your bright red gums. and we definitely don’t want to watch you gnaw on a piece of fried chicken. PUT YOUR TEETH BACK IN YOUR MOUTH!

after my grandmother passed away, spending time over there became really bizarre. my grandfather wasn’t in good health, and what, with my toothless, somewhat mentally retarded uncle on the loose asking me how old i was and toothlessly gnawing on chicken bones, it was what i imagine prison is like–or a really good beating that you almost deserve. my dad soon uprooted to hawaii (traitor! but i don’t blame him) so it was me and my brothers and a few of my other cousins, my aunt and another uncle, and darryl. it quickly became clear that it had been my grandmother who kept this freak show running smoothly and without her, what was really the point? torture?

a few years ago, uncle darryl got in an accident. why the state of texas would give a drivers license to a questionably stable man is beyond me–but they did. anyway, at the hospital one of those ambulance chasing attorneys caught wind of my uncle and went to his bedside and told him he was going to be rich. my uncle perked up and listened like this was news chiseled on tablets from moses himself. when he told my dad what the lawyer had said, my dad immediately got involved because this would not end well for my uncle if left to his own devices. after several months and numerous trips to the attorney’s office, he did get some money. my dad made him put it in a trust so he wouldn’t blow it all at walmart. it was a good thing he did that because darryl asked for some of the money and when my dad gave it to him, he blew it all at walmart. it’s not like solving a rubik’s cube here, people! it’s like putting a jigsaw puzzle together–one that only has 4 giant pieces that a 2 year old can do–by himself!

sadly, my memory isn’t what it used to be. i’m sure there’s more to tell, but these are just the few bits and pieces i’ve been able to extract from my very normal brain this morning. i’m sure my dad will phone to let me know everything i forgot to mention. so expect part 2 of the saga when you realize your family is stupid–and i mean for real another day.

xo