If my family were a shopping cart it would be the kind you'd avoid because it's got a squeaky misaligned wheel. Only in my particular case, it wouldn't be just one bad wheel, it would be at least three. And expecting it to travel in a strait and predictable quiet path would be out of the question. Basically, if my family was indeed a shopping cart, it would be the one you would quickly take back to the cart corral and exchange for a new one.
That's because it's really no secret that my family gene pool has been marinating in crazy for some time. I've never hidden the fact that one of my unconventional but favorite uncles had a knack for holding solemn occasions in not-so-solemn locations. Namely a marriage that took place in a nudist colony, Christmases spent in lock-down, and even his own funeral was held at the Screaming Chicken Saloon
(If you're a member of a notorious biker "club" you'll know exactly where that is).
Nor have I made secret that my eccentric aunt spent years dabbling in the fine art of hyperbole. She'd constantly hustle her neighbors, unsuspecting waiters and waitresses, even her mailman, with flagrant and erroneous updates on me and my siblings--claiming that we were child prodigies (a serious crime of untruth). When we'd arrive at her house for summer visits she would give us a verbal dossier in order to get our stories strait. My brother who she professed to be the "youngest astronaut-in-training", my sister the "Olympic Gymnast", and me the "successful child actor" would spend a few minutes studying our bogus biographies as if we'd just been put into the witness protection program and our lives depended on it. Then she would promptly unveil us like a traveling stage show in a dizzying parade of pride.
...and these are just the relatives I dare blog about.
But one confession that I rarely let slip through is the one about my own father. Crazy uncles and aunts are a staple but a direct relation that makes up one half of your DNA strand seems to mar your personal integrity with greater abruptness. The secret about my father proves so salacious that people far and wide know the sordid details without my having to publicize it--which really doesn't make it much of a secret does it?
My dad became a bona fide family crazy about a decade ago. He abruptly changed his first name and officially declared himself a "Sovereign Nation". At the time, I'd only heard of the declarations of Independence or perhaps declarations of items you've brought with you across a border--but declaring yourself a sovereign nation?
Well, that one I had to Google.
His "manifest destiny" as I like to call it, came about when some governmental red tape became his "last straw". Instead of complaining about it like the rest of us casually do, my father actually did something about it...something crazy. His formal show of force came in the form of the aforementioned declaration and drastic name change.
As for the name change, that becomes a little more confusing. Usually names are changed from an irregular name to something more familiar. Perhaps your parents were products of the 60's and named you "Galaxy" and you just wanted something more normal and so you legally change it to "Bob". Fair and normal enough. But that is not the case here--which really comes as no surprise given my genetic predisposition for the unorthodox. In this case, my father chose to name himself after one of the 50 states. For me, it just doesn't roll of the tongue very easily to call my own father a name that I associate with a fifth grade test that forced me to memorize it's associated capital city and shape on a map. So I just stick with calling him "Dad". My sister, however, loves to use his new name and uses it often and almost incessantly in awkward misplaced areas in a sentence as if she's some sort of stenographer who's getting paid by the word.
The whole ordeal has become sort of a family ruse. When any of us begin to look like were stressed out and about to succumb to the ill pressures of life, one of us blurts out, "you're not going to go change your name are you?" It's sort of become a kind of code for losing it. A familial litmus test. One of the perils of having a lifetime pre-paid membership in my peculiar yet special family also inevitably means that any one of us are all one stressful situation away from joining our kindred crazies in a brazen act of nonconformity.
Poor Mitchell had just that kind of episode a few days ago...
Mitchell went to register and renew the plates on his car at the DMV and when he came home he gave me quite a scare.
His plates had expired (as a nice police officer, accompanied by flashing lights, had so kindly pointed out to him). This meant that the poor kid got his first taste of
Real Life 101 when he went down to the DMV to renew and pay the fees ON HIS OWN. When he arrived, he found an unusually long line for even the "take a number" machine. It took a half hour to reach the service counter. There he learned that the DMV does not accept debit cards. Only cash or checks.
Mitchell, of generation Y, was puzzled because he had never even seen an actual check nor written one. In the year he has had his own checking account he has successfully remained paperless and never found an occasion that required actual paper to transfer money.
The DMV attendant at the window directed him to the nearest ATM and instructed him to hurry back as he would have to wait in line all over again.
So Mitchell ran across the street where he paid $4 in fees for the privilege to use a non-friendly ATM machine and withdrew $100 in cash. He dashed back to the DMV where he waited again in yet another long line. Another half hour later he once again stood before the disinterested DMV man. Mitchell confidently slide the documents and cash across to him to finalize his first of many painful DMV extortions transactions only to be told callously that the amount owed was more than double the amount that was actually listed on his official DMV papers. Although it stated that he owed $75, the man told him the total was incorrect and that he needed to pay $175...cash or check, of course.
Mitchell, who was now slightly distraught having only withdrawn $100 from the ATM, made his way back across the street. In an attempt to avoid another $4 "transaction fee" he decided to go to a nearby store and get a cold beverage with his debit card and get $100 cash back. Smart kid right? Unfortunately his plan backfired. The store only allowed him to take just $10 extra. This meant a return to the offending ATM machine to extract another $100 after all. And of course the machine again charged him another $4 service fee.
For the second time he made his way on foot, across traffic and waited in line-this time for 40 minutes. He slid $175 of his hard earned summer job savings across the counter only to be given in return, two tiny little stickers for his car's license plate.
Mitchell arrived home and came straightaway to find me and give me all the sordid details of his distressing DMV experience. His tale included uncharacteristic undertones of hostility accompanied by mild gesturing--which is an extreme act in Mitchell's case. I sat listening and tried really hard to act upset over the first of many costly predicaments that lay in wait for the rest of his adult life. Unfortunately my insensitive response was, "Just think, when your plates expire in two more years you get to do it all over again!"
To which he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm so frustrated I'm about ready to change my name and declare myself a sovereign nation!"
I was horrified at how easily this thought rolled off his tongue...but not surprised.
Yet another family member gone mad. I suppose it was only a matter of time.
