26 November 2021
Story #1050
R. Linda:
It wasn't even Thanksgiving, and I received a card from my cousins once removed. To be honest, I wish they were 100 times removed. I did not know I had these relatives until I bought a subscription to Ancestry.com, and they located me! All I was doing was exploring me Mam's side of the family for her when I got this message from Mura and Cian O'Connor greeting me with "Hell-o cousin!" At first, I ignored the message because I only wanted to explore on me own and not make "connections," especially with family I had no clue I had. It was just a rundown of how far back I could trace grandparents, not tie up with cousins, aunts, uncles, etc.
Well, R. Linda, these two were persistent. I finally gave in to their whim of making contact, and it turns out (unfortunately) that they live in Massachusetts, not far from me. Oi! "We need to meet," they said, and they had a free Saturday, so they thought they might drop by me abode and exchange ancestry information.
Well, you know the rest. I wrote about this some years ago when I was living at the other abode in the woods. Every year since, I have received the annual Christmas greeting BEFORE Thanksgiving, and usually, it is filled with things about people I do not know and who are not even part of my side of the family. This year was no exception.
"Monty married a girl with a cleft lip, and we are trying to get her surgery. Aunt Annie passed in July, too many fireworks and with her dementia, she thought she was living the 1918 Irish Rebellion, and the bombs were flying. Frightened herself so much that she had a heart attack and died. Which seems extreme, she wasn't alive in 1918."
I'll say.
Oh dear, oh dear, WHAT do I write back to that?
I wanted to say, "Who the bloody hell is Monty and where did he find a girl with a cleft lip? No, don't tell me. And as for Auntie Annie, I didn't know her, had no clue she had dementia and find your whole story of fireworks becoming imaginary bombs . . . NUTS!"
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I said sorry about Auntie Annie, congrats to Monty, and hoped the surgery would be successful. I just have to throw up me arms like, WHAT?!
Then there be me cousin Sean (you remember him, unlucky at love, but successful at being annoying) -- right him. Every year, I get a long letter inside a card that is already filled out on the inside and back. He tells me about every road closing in Ireland and how many Citrons he sees on the roads, and this leads him to believe Ireland is being invaded by the French, not the English. He will go on ad nauseam about his lack of a love life and how he just KNOWS he will end up alone.
To him, I want to say, "GET OVER YOURSELF! Who cares if there are French cars all over Ireland? That doesn't mean the French are there, too! So, the road department is busy or inept. Find another route and just shut up! I DON'T CARE!"
But no, I wrote that I knew what he meant about the detours. It was like that when I was there (it wasn't). And Citrons—how unique are those really funny-looking cars? But maybe he should buy one, and that might get him a girlfriend if he has a French accent.
I dunno. What do you write back?
Then there be me, Aunt Rose, she wrote to me her cat got out and was gone for a week! She was so depressed that finally, she was going to go down to the shelter and get another when, magically, Houdini reappeared and they were all happy. Happy even if she had to take Houdini to the vet because he got home with a mangled leg and they had to amputate. Now she is battling guilt that she somehow let him out without knowing and being responsible for the missing limb.
UGH!
I wanted to write back, "At least the animal is alive for Pete's sake and she has her 'cuddle-muffin' back." But no, instead I wrote back, "A three-legged cat be as common as a three-legged dog and will do just fine." She cares more about her cat than any human being, and in this age of crazies, who can blame her? I'd much rather she wish me a Happy Christmas without the cat stories.
Then there be me old school chum who should have been a horror story writer. He wrote to me that his wife had a mastectomy. He thinks it was payback for his infidelities, his father-in-law was attacked on the golf course by a wild boar and lost his left foot, and to make matters worse (could they be ANY worse?), his brother had too much drink in him, crashed his car into a tree and be in a coma. The good news is that there is no brain damage that the doctors can see... for now. However, his daughter ran off with a man old enough to be her grandfather, and they don't know where she is, and finally, the teenage son had a friend intervention and went into rehab after overdosing when he flunked all his classes.
OK
I wanted to write, "Well, Timmy Boyo, nothing in your life has changed much. You were a loser in school, never made much of your life, screwed up your brother by introducing hard liquor to him when he was ten, you left your wife a dozen times for other women and now you feel bad? I thought you hated your father-in-law, and I am surprised you aren't laughing about his lost foot. You ran off with the long-suffering wife when she was 16, and you were what, 28? I see a case of the kettle calling the pot . . . What comes around goes around, Timmy." But I did not.
Instead, I made it sound like I was very sorry to hear of the tragic turn life has taken this year (which is no different from prior years of family horror stories).
One last one is friends who live in Florida. Every year, I receive a card with palm trees on it, yes, it smacks of the holiday season. Every year, a photo is inside, and the couple seems to get younger in the photo (yes, R. Linda, Photoshop be a wonderful thing for these people). And every year, they tell me about a new acquisition. Last year, it was a 40-foot yacht; this year, it is a new enclosed swimming pool with a GROTTO. "Like the Playboy mansion. You should really come down for a visit."
They know I will not be going for a "visit" in this pandemic, and so it's "safe" to write such lies because Gabe won't be down to see for himself! For the heck of it, I should write, "I have the month of January free. I will take you up on your offer to visit. Enclosed is a baby picture of how young I be."
I could just imagine the mad dash for appointments for plastic surgery, asking a friend if they will lend their yacht out, and looking up an Airbnb with a pool with a grotto. Warms me, black heart, it does. But then the excuse would be they were sick, so they looked old suddenly, the yacht they had just sold, and the house, well, they wanted to downsize. People forget that when you have their address, all you have to do now is Google it, and well, the house image tells it all, along with the price and what's inside. I tell ya, there is no excuse for being stupid. I've heard all this for years and got curious. I did look them up and NAH, no way, and the house . . . on a lot, there's no room for a pool, let alone a grotto. It is tempting to write, "Hey, look yourselves and your house up on Google images, I just did!" I am not impressed. Why should I be? And why do I need to be impressed, because I simply DO NOT CARE.
I know, this be Gabe sounding snarky and cynical, but truly, I just want to be left out of the drama. I don't know these people they write about, and when they do write about those I do know, it's usually some exaggeration wasted on yours truly.
I only want cards that say: Dear Gabe, Happy Christmas, Signed, So-and-So.
Don't tell me how you are (because you won't unless you have some disease), what you are doing (because you won't tell me the truth), who is in trouble (I can't help anyway, so why bother?), Who died (certainly can't do anything about THAT), what catastrophe that you think is coming in the New Year (if I wanted to know that, I'd look at Fox News)? JUST DON'T. Life has been depressing enough without outside influencers spreading what's wrong in their world, all the while ignoring that you might have something going on. too, that you would rather not share. It is supposed to be the season to be jolly, not heaping more bah-humbug on some innocent shoulders. SO STOP IT!
If you are one of these people, don't wish me a Happy Yuletide. I want to wish you a happy termiticide because you won't be hearing from me ever again.
Gabe
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