Crazy Aunt Penny

My mother's family tree is riddled with mental illness. Her father committed suicide when she was very young, her older brother jumped out a window and broke both legs while attempting to kill himself and her sister, Penny, is manic depressive and I believe, deeply evil. How my mom turned out normal is truly a phenomenon. In contrast, on the other side of the tree, my father's family was somewhat mentally healthy. It was only mildly strange that his mother(my grandmother) would respond to the question, "How are you?" with the consistent answer of "Like the weather". Only after making sure that she realized it was a beautiful, sunny day would she explain that she was certain it was raining somewhere. However, for the purposes of this post, let's focus on my Aunt Penny.

She has never liked me. Ever. She has always made this crystal clear. My 11 year older brother, Alan, was the Messiah and I was gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe that she could never completely scrape off. As evidence, when I was around 8 years old my parents had me stay overnite at her and my Uncle's apartment. My Uncle Jack was a kind and loving man who I liked to spend time with so I thought it was a good idea. Even my Aunt seemed unusually excited for me to visit. When I got there my Uncle was still at work, so Aunt Penny seduced me with Shake and Bake chicken and a vanilla Yoo-hoo. As I sat at her glass coffee table sipping my Yoo-hoo through a straw, I made the mistake of dripping exactly one drop onto it. Suddenly, I was no longer a welcome house guest. I was a sloppy, pig that had defiled her precious, (piece of crap) glass coffee table. Even though I immediately cleaned it up, she continued to rant like the lunatic she truly was. After screaming that my brother would never have dripped anything on her furniture, she proceeded to show me her costume jewelry and tell me that I would never see any of it because she never put me in her will. Her pasty jewelry would only go to Alan, lest I spill Yoo-hoo all over it. The fact of the matter was that no one would ever sit next to my brother when he ate a bowl of soup because they would be wearing it by the end of the meal. Unable to accept bullshit even as a child, I screamed that she was crazy and I left. I ended up waiting out in their apartment hallway until my Uncle came home confused and angry at my Aunt.

There were many incidents when my Aunt went off her medication and went into what we termed her "highs". Usually, they entailed her calling and screaming at my mother for apparently ruining her life, calling me to remind me that I was garbage, or screaming at my Uncle that she hated him and knew he was with hookers on 42nd street. Frankly, who could blame him. Then she would drive around in her ancient car that she named "Betsey" and shop incessantly, upset the public at large, and sometimes disappear for a while. Always ending with my Uncle Jack having to forcibly hospitalize and medicate her.

Her final "high" took place about 13 years ago. By this time she and my Uncle had moved from New York to live in the same Florida neighborhood as my parents, much to their chagrin. I had cut off all ties to her and would only visit with my Uncle at my parent's home or at the community pool so I could avoid the witch. My mother called to warn me that my Aunt was off her meds and would likely call to remind me of the fact that I was shit, or worse show up at my doorstep in New York to tell me in person. Luckily, she and "Betsey" stayed in Florida harassing my parents and Uncle, as well as the entire population of Melbourne Beach. When her beautician would no longer deal with her, she cut off her own hair transforming her appearance into the true mental patient that she was. When the Chinese restaurant refused to accept her coupon for the Italian restaurant, they called the cops and had her thrown out. When she was selling mechanical toy dogs outside a shopping mall for half the price she paid, she was shut down by security. When she drove on the landing strip of Patrick's airforce base and nearly caused a plane to crash, the military police surrounded her with M16's, carted her off and called the name of the doctor that she claimed was her physician. The name she gave them was my father's. He holds a doctorate in health and physical education and never practiced medicine or had the right to, in his entire life.

That was the end of the road (or landing strip) for my Aunt's highs. Lithium has been coursing through her veins religiously ever since and "Betsey" has been garaged and will remain that way until she drops dead.

Augusten Burroughs

My favorite author by far is Augusten Burroughs. In fact, his books are the only ones I've read in years. Truth be told, I've always defiantly prided myself on my lack of literary knowledge and delighted in telling anyone that would listen that I only read shopping magazines and department store sale signs. Book shelves are non-existent in my home, except for the prerequisite ones in my kid's room (reading is fundamental, after all). If you've read any of my other posts (which no one has) you would know this already. Book stores make me break out into a rash which can only be calmed by the magazine section.

Anyway, my friend Carolyn shattered my self-possessed, indignant sense of reality when she suggested I read his book "Magical Thinking". I was immediately appalled. She knows I don't read books and I've truly had no intention of ever starting. My lack of attention span and hatred for anything that makes me feel any emotions created by another's writing made book reading an impossibility, and now she was trying to pop the bubble I have so carefully kept myself in since school! After she calmed me down she explained that this particular book was short, hilarious stories of his life. She even went as far to say that it reminded her of my blog. Knowing flattery will get me to do just about anything, I agreed to borrow the book never intending to read it. I even left it on the passenger seat of my car thinking that I would return it after a reasonable amount of time had passed. Then it somehow sucked me in. It started innocently enough. While waiting for the school bus and the arrival of my demon spawn I cracked the book open. I figured I'd read a few pages and then return it, telling Carolyn I was far too self-involved to care about a stranger's life. As I read alone in my car, I found myself laughing out loud. Each day while waiting for the bus I read more, never bringing the book into my home, still trying to avoid getting sucked into this author's world.

Then it happened. I found myself laying in bed yearning to read more of his stories. The next thing I knew the book came into my home. When I finished it, I read his other books "Dry" and "Running With Scissors". Then I did the absolute, unthinkable. I paid money for his new book "Possible Side Effects". I've even visited his website. Now I find I'm basically his stalker, except I'm far too lazy to actually, physically stalk but rather passively stalk by subscribing to his website and waiting impatiently for him to write something new. He (and Carolyn) have deviously turned my world upside down.

The good news is I still love shopping magazines and hate book stores, preferring to shop discreetly on-line rather then being surrounded by actual tree-hugging, bookworms or my friends. The bad news is that if the bastard keeps writing I might actually have to get some book shelves which my mechanically defective husband will certainly take hours to put up. He's Jewish, which means he won't read the instructions and will hang them upside down and crooked first and put unnecessary holes in my pristine walls. Inconceivably, this writer has made it all worth it to me.

Colorectal Tales

A couple of years ago my husband and I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a nurse that worked in a colorectal doctor's office. We found ourselves spellbound by her stories of items that the doctor has removed from that very private of areas. It was really quite fascinating not to mention pee your pants hysterical, at least to our twisted minds.

Allow me to start with the gentleman that came in complaining of having a pepperoni lodged where he could not remove it. The nurse said the doctor noted in the patient's file that there was some kind of sausage, most likely not kosher that needed his skills. Next was the 17 year old who's (poor) parents brought him in because the boy had been exploring with a Scope bottle. Personally, I have switched to gargling with Listerine since hearing this story. Next was the wife that brought her husband in to have a microphone dislodged that he was experimenting with. Brilliant! Another woman needed a vibrator removed. The nurse explained, that normally this wouldn't have been that amusing except for the fact that it was still running, obviously due to fresh batteries. Finally, there was the unfortunate mishap between a man and his broomstick. He claimed to be on a ladder painting his basement when he took a fall and landed on the wooden end of the broom. Truly acrobatic!

I don't think I ever would have thought to write about these tales if my husband hadn't needed back surgery last week. You see, he was in the holding room prior to surgery and anesthesia when a physician walked in and asked the nurse if they could give him an operating room for 20 minutes. When the nurse inquired as to why he needed it without prior notice, the doctor explained that he had a man who was complaining of having a cap stuck up his rectum. The doctor went on to say that the patient claimed it was the cap from hemorrhoid cream but he wouldn't be sure until he was up close and personal with it.

My husband unexplainably kept his composure throughout the conversation, whereas I would have most definitely burst out into hysterics and ruptured an organ requiring further surgery.