Blame the French in Me

Today I’m going to lunch with my uncles and grandparents, the latter of which are in town only for the week. Thankfully.

Sink me! (Or shoot me, whichever you prefer.)

It’s not that I don’t love my family. I do. I have just come to grips with the fact that they are all insane. And my brothers and I are the only normal ones.

Do you have any idea what a huge burden it is to be solely responsible for holding up the torch of normalcy in your family line? In order to fully grasp what I mean, you would probably have to know a little more of our history.

My grandmother maintains that her side of the family is directly descended from Francis I, the last Duke of Lorraine (who I am apparently named after) who eventually became the Holy Roman Emperor and the father of Marie Antoinette. Unfortunately, he died inexplicably in his carriage on the way home from the Opera.

Random? Yes. In a word, that describes my family. My grandma is becoming senile and prone to sudden fits of dementia. She is also obsessed with appearances and propriety and when she is not acting out, does her best to act exactly like Audrey Hepburn.

My grandpa is an author and is somehow under the impression that talking for several hours on end about WWII, Jon Wayne, or Tom Clancy novels is enthralling to nearby listeners.

My uncles are hilarious, but slightly fond of bringing up inappropriate events and family problems in the wrong situations. We’re going to Sundance. This should be fun.

 

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4 thoughts on “Blame the French in Me

  1. Sounds like my family! I once sat through a forty-five minute conversation about a new toaster that does four pieces of toast at the same time and not the usual two. I think you’ve inspired my next post, Ronnica.

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