What are all the ways that your family is messed up? (Read 305 times)

 

Yup, my parents are enablers. They know it too but what can they do, "he's their son." Blah blah blah.

 

They all live in Alaska and I live in Pennsylvania.

Perhaps we'll get to see him on "Alaska State Troopers" one day, eh?

Seriously, I could make a soap opera from my family.

Let's just put this in terms that should scare the living shit out of those of you who actually know me.  Compared to my family I am completely sane, sober, pure, together, healthy and in control.

Gosh…where to start? I guess you could go back to the story of my birth – I entered this world in the wagon of a travelling show. My mother was a dancer, for the money they’d throw, and Papa would do whatever odd jobs he could find.

All through my childhood we were itinerant workers, traveling the southern carnival circuit and because we were outsiders, folks would call us names…Gypsies! Tramps!  Thieves!

At sixteen, met a boy from Mobile at one stop along the way..and we ended up hooking up and three months later, I’m a gal in trouble. Uh oh.

Ended up like my mom, dancing for money…and even turning some tricks – hey, don’t judge, money is money and there were mouths to feed.

So we continued on, a gypsy family of Granpa selling a bottle or two of Dr Good, Grandma doing whatever she could, me and the kid.  We were proud Gypsies, not Tramps, and only part time thieves.

Where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for b*ggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.

(with apologies to Dr. Evil)

 

Yup, my parents are enablers. They know it too but what can they do, "he's their son." Blah blah blah.

 

They all live in Alaska and I live in Pennsylvania.

My folks enabled my baby sister for quite a while...let her live at home rent-free with her infant son...while she partied hard and got knocked-up with baby #2 by a different guy (like you, I was perfectly happy to have a Great Lake separating me from my sister and parents for many years).  She finally grew up around the time she hit her late 20s (she's 32, now).  Her 2nd son is autistic, which in many ways was a godsend.  She had no choice but to step up.

She finally married this past Fall.  Her DH is not the father of either of her 2 boys, but you'd never know it.  He's a really good guy who had his own rough years in his late-teens to early-20s and is more of a dad to her boys than either of their bio fathers.  My sister and her DH are doing really well, all things considered.  They are responsible, own a home, and are careful with what money they do have.  If my siblings and I have learned anything it's to be better with finances than our folks are/were.  They are nearing 70 and still don't own a home and have little money put aside for retirement...which is why they can't retire.  As a result my siblings and I lose sleep wondering what to do when our folks can no longer work and still have to pay rent and put food on the table.

Gosh…where to start? I guess you could go back to the story of my birth – I entered this world in the wagon of a travelling show. My mother was a dancer, for the money they’d throw, and Papa would do whatever odd jobs he could find.

 

All through my childhood we were itinerant workers, traveling the southern carnival circuit and because we were outsiders, folks would call us names…Gypsies! Tramps!  Thieves!

 

At sixteen, met a boy from Mobile at one stop along the way..and we ended up hooking up and three months later, I’m a gal in trouble. Uh oh.

 

Ended up like my mom, dancing for money…and even turning some tricks – hey, don’t judge, money is money and there were mouths to feed.

 

So we continued on, a gypsy family of Granpa selling a bottle or two of Dr Good, Grandma doing whatever she could, me and the kid.  We were proud Gypsies, not Tramps, and only part time thieves.

Milk Truck, I think we may be related.

Our family sometimes goes online, and reveals all our secrets.  It's terrible, really.

Interesting we haven't heard from the OP, isn't it?