We Put the “Dys” in Dysfunctional

Beloved and I come from rather diverse backgrounds.  Growing up, his family lived in New England and belonged to a country club, where he and his siblings learned to play golf and tennis – mine lived in Texas and had a garage full of motorcycles and guns, where we learned to take aim at and run over each other.

Yeah, he has a nice golf swing, but I can shoot all the pins off a clothesline with an air rifle.

Despite the differences in our upbringings, Beloved and I have a great deal in common.  Our views on politics, religion, child rearing and overall life philosophies are pretty much on the same page.  Which is a good thing – we’ve been together for 10 years and still haven’t killed each other.  We also have similar relationships with our siblings, and we each have a sister who is just absolutely bug-fucking NUTS.

But in a good way.

My whacky-but-lovable sister has one of the most open and generous hearts you could ever hope to encounter – as far as she’s concerned, there is no such thing as a stranger and she will give anyone the shirt off her back.  That being said, she has also been known to beat one of her teenagers – and any other teenager that might get in the way – about the neck and head with a flashlight on the yearly camping trip because he sneaked off with his dad’s bottle of booze and got totally snockered.

(Disclaimer: since it is techinically against the law to have alcohol in a Texas State Park, the liquor was left in the car quite accidentally before the trip took place, because no one in my family would ever break the law by boozing it up on a camping trip at a Texas State Park.  No, ma’am.)

She also has only three volumes – Loud, Very Loud, and You Can Hear Her in the Next Time Zone.  Combine that with the fact that she has absolutely no filter between the mouth and the brain…well, let’s just say a few hours in her presence is an experience you’re not likely to forget any time soon.  In a family that is gregarious to begin with, my sister sets a whole new standard.

Beloved’s whacky-but-lovable sister simply lacks any sense, common or otherwise.  Don’t get me wrong, she really is a sweetheart, but the first time I met her she sat in a large, old fashioned pickle crock that was in her living room for some reason.  And got stuck.  And we had to literally pry her out of it.  Which is hard to do when you’re laughing your ass off.

Why did she sit in it?  I’m not sure.  I don’t think she knew why at the time.  She’s just a goofball that way.

Saturday she decided to grace us with her presence when she came to our house seeking clothes to wear to a 60s Party she was attending that evening.  Now, you must understand that the party began at 8:00 p.m.  She showed up at our house shortly after 3:00 p.m. and we had assembled her a suitable “hippie outfit” from an old tshirt, granny skirt, beads and scarf in about 20 minutes.  Since her husband was at work and her son out doing things that teenage boys do on Saturday afternoons, she decided she had a few minutes to spare so we settled in around our kitchen table to chat for a little while.

Beloved offered her something to drink.  She asked for a beer.  Once in the possession of the beer (which was really a stout), she decided she didn’t like it.  So we opened a bottle of wine.

It pretty much went downhill from there.

A little after 9:00 p.m. (and about 5 glasses of wine later), her husband finally showed up to take her to the party.  Yes, six hours later.  She was just simply having too good a time to go home.  (My good time ran out about 5 hours earlier.)  Uninhibited by nature, the wine only enhanced that quality, and in the six hours she was at our home, she:

  • Announced to everyone that she does not wear underwear
  • Proved it
  • Flashed me her boobs
  • Grabbed my boobs
  • Grabbed Beloved’s crotch
  • Gave the dog a massage
  • Asked me a very personal question about my relationship with the faucet in our guest bathroom (you don’t EVEN want to know; trust me)

Like I said, she had a very good time.

Families.  You gotta love ’em.  Because it’s still illegal to strangle ’em.

Note: While our kids read my blog – and this story will amuse them to no end – neither whacky-but-lovable sister does.  So I should be safe.  Of course, if one of them should happen to run across this, they can always pay me back with a visit on a Saturday afternoon.

8 thoughts on “We Put the “Dys” in Dysfunctional”

  1. I’m so happy you posted this!!! It is so funny! Don’t forget that she called me and left a singing voicemail where she couldn’t remember her phone number.

  2. Oh yes. I have many relatives who should wear those T-shirts with warning…add alcohol and run. This story is hilarious, mostly because it’s your story and not mine.

    Tricias last blog post..THAT Friend

  3. LOL Thanks for the laugh! HBL and I have dysfunctional “bug-fucking nuts” sisters but NOT in a good way. I’ve learned to stay away and also take the time to put on my glasses so I can see caller i.d. before I answer the phone. yikes

    Midlife Slicess last blog post..A River Of Memories

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