why you shouldn’t tell your family where you live

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.

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