Family, Lost and Found

Family, Lost and Found

Like an irrepressible, unremitting disease, it’s time for another family reunion. In the case of my relatives, it should be called Family Fight Night because everyone knows this event will end with people flying through the air, trips to the emergency room, screaming children and destroyed property. We find a new location every five years for this ruckus because no reputable establishment will let us back for a repeat performance.  

The invitation announces that the "20th Annual Bleeker Family Reunion" is to be held in Memphis, Tennessee at the Coral Beach Resort in the Royal Hawaiian Room. The picture postcard portrays a setting that has a beautiful sunset, a pristine ocean and glistening sand. The glossiness looks great, but I know false advertising when I see it. First, Tennessee is land-locked, it is not bordered by the ocean and second, this family only uses these gatherings to vent their stored-up venom. The airing of these ancient, endless complaints adds to each family member’s reservoir of hatred that will be fired off in future familial encounters.

My heart races, my breathing becomes labored and I am feeling lightheaded as I ponder whether or not I should turn the picture postcard over. I don’t know if I am ready to endure any more family disasters. It is time to implement my technique of progressive muscle relaxation. Twenty minutes later, I become more composed. I am almost finished. I take several deep breaths. I am ready. I begin to read. 

The 20th Bleeker Family Reunion    

Please come, it’s always fun.

It's our family time to meet.

 If you’re a no show, rumors will be spun.

Get ready, to be on the hit list that says delete.

Take the plunge, be bold.

Yes, it’s safer for you to show.

Otherwise, tales will be told.

You'll be left out in the cold.

Take out your calendar, record this date.

Get a piece of paper or use your phone.

Mark it down, December 28.

Keep in mind, your address is known.

The celebration begins at seven.

Drink before you come, it’s a no host bar. 

It could be hell, or it could be heaven.  

Smile, take a slug, be a star.

My family promptly needs to take a vote and ace out granny from doing these family reunion postcards. Her so called-humor has always been laced with threats. Maybe that is why her son, my father is off kilter. Whatever it is, bad genetics or just plain old family dysfunction, I want no part of this lunacy.

I am ready to throw this invitation away like the others, but my aim is off. I miss the basket. I surmise; this may be the universe telling me to make a personal appearance. I admit, missing a few of these family extravaganzas has been a blessing. Why would I travel 2,153 miles for this family? The last happy hullabaloo rocketed my internal spaceship right out of orbit. It took a few months of intensive therapy to land me into reality. I am mentally stronger, and I look great, maybe I should go. I have missed weddings, funerals, graduations and baby showers. Yes, I believe I am ready to face my past. I hope I am not talking myself into going. 

Yes, I do cherish every mile of separation from my family. When family events arise, of course, I say: “I would love to come but my job just about makes it near impossible to travel.” I, admittedly, do neglect to tell them that I have been in Memphis three times for conferences since I moved but I never get around to calling anyone in my family. 

The last family reunion focuses upon cousin Jean's job promotion and an endless diatribe follows about how any day she will be running Google or Facebook at the rate she is progressing. Last I heard she was working as an administrative secretary, oh excuse me, an administrative assistant at the Cement Factory. I think anyone employed in a top position at Facebook or Google, need not worry about their position being jeopardized because of Jean’s rapid ascension into the big time. After that fantastical piece of fiction, I am next bombarded by a litany of words and examples of how, my brother, Bill practically runs the whole grocery company. This is more preposterous than amazing since he is employed as an assistant shelf stocker.

Finally, it is my time to talk about my achievements but, lo and behold, the topic quickly changes. I begin to say: “I got a promotion and I am in position for a Vice-President position at Litton Hospital Services. My mother says: “That’s good honey but when are you going to settle down, have kids and get your life in order?” Now, I remember, once again, why I moved away. If I had the breadth and depth of vision, budget, job offer and courage, I would have relocated a lot further than 2,000 miles, maybe even to another solar system. The paucity of my familial support is astounding but then again, I must admit, it is consistent. The only one who does not seem to get how this family dysfunctions is me. I have been hanging out with normal, supportive friends and coworkers for too long. I make a note to myself: If you achieve any measure of success in this family, you are an outsider, a black sheep. Baa, baa, baa.    

No one is interested in me or my job, but I always provide good fodder for criticism. I acknowledge, I am no beauty and I have a few extra pounds. I can always count on my lovely father to emphasize my flaws, few as they are. While I am talking about my job, he joyfully begins calling me “Chunky Charlotte.” He came up with this nickname for me when I was a skinny teenager. Every chance he gets, few as I allow, he greets me with this moniker. Apparently, the alcohol blurs out the 9-month pregnancy I remember him carrying when I was an adolescent. Years pass and his pregnancy never comes to fruition. I think he has graduated to carrying octuplet elephants now.  

Did I forget to mention that dear father operates consistently on a blood alcohol level of .08% or more. Oh, I remember, we don’t talk about this fact in my family. I guess I should be grateful that my father calls me “Chunky Charlotte” because the only times I recall him ever talking to me are when he has a disparaging comment to throw my way.  

Dear old dad, always drinking or momentarily between drinks because the hard liquor magically disappears, but not for long. He is always capable of making a liquor store run and more than capable of driving drunk. I believe if he had to drive sober, he would get into an accident, pronto.

Let’s return to everyone jumping on the fat-shaming bandwagon. No family member worth their bitter salt wants to be left out. I should be happy. It is remarkable. All these contentious family members finally agree on one thing: I am fat. My sister throws the next finely-sharpened dagger at me when she announces: “I am five months pregnant with twins and I still weigh less than you.” My pregnant sibling is also four inches shorter than me in height and she is way shorter in her intellectual capacity but who is keeping score, anyway?  

Now, surely, any reasonable person could understand why I still believe, I must have been adopted or maybe I was kidnapped. Years ago, and, sometimes, even today, I pray my real parents will come to my rescue. Then I will resume my rightful position in a grand palace with servants and family members who love me. My missing-in-action parents have yet to show and I am relegated to surviving this dysfunctional family. I, indeed, do more than survive. I thrive in a new environment and a new life that I have created. No wonder I don’t have children. I need to take responsibility and not pass on any of these dominant genes that are on their full, ugly display tonight within this family reunion. What was I thinking? I obviously am not thinking. Just because I have changed, I thought they would all grow up and become nicer people. I am clearly the delusional one in this family hodgepodge. I need to go see a shrink if I ever think of attending another family function again. I am also going to double-up on my birth control methods. This family and their maladaptive stories continue to serve as a vivid testament to the myriad of reasons for controlled family planning.  

These family reunions are bolstered by generations of prevaricators who skillfully pour enough glistening varnish into the cracks of their lives that they could make sandpaper gleam. My favorite historical rewrites include how Jeff, my first cousin, chooses to quit high school because he finds the "contextual experience to be below his intellectual acumen.” Then there is Lori who went through a drug phase, but she is all better now and is working as a pharmacist. She couldn't be happier. I wonder if her current emotional state is with or without pharmaceuticals. Meanwhile, plucky Aunt Alice is in the throes of her fourth divorce because in contrast to the rest of us, she knows how to execute decisive action when it is necessary. Apparently, my lack of a divorce history proves I am indecisive. I guess my mother is right. I need to get married and divorced a few times so I can fit into this family.   

After this tenth family reunion, I'm so maligned and abused that instead of getting committed to the safe confines of a mental hospital, I choose to enroll in a rigorous exercise and eating program. My boot camp instructor thinks my routine is too radical, but you can't argue with the results. Besides, I am offered a fitness instructor job from this very same instructor who questions my program. Completing my MBA establishes that I will have a tonnage of challenging employment options. Can you hear me Jean and Bill?

Three years post-family reunion, I achieve that Hollywood-like aura and it's worth every droplet of sweat I've shed and every inflated dime I've spent. Here I am, new and improved. Goodbye to eyeglasses, hello to aquamarine-blue contacts. After dropping the fat, I buy a prefabricated body and a face that’s been expertly reassembled. “Barbie” would be jealous of the finished product. My stockbroker fiancee loves the outcome and, of course, he loves me. Oh, cousin, Jennifer, just want to inform you that I weigh ten pounds less than you did when you were in high school. Please tell my sister the news, too. 

Rereading the card, I see it says: " RSVP regrets only." Is this invitation a covert allusion to my main life regret that is out of my sphere of control, being saddled with this unsympathetic and judgmental family? Oh, that's not what the card means when it says regrets. It means, let the sender know only if you are not coming.  

Two months later, I decide it's time for a reckoning. Josh, my fiancee cannot come because he is required to attend the annual shareholder's meeting. That's good. It’s enough for me to try to deal with this family. It would be inhumane to knowingly inflict the inherent psychological damage incurred by exposure to their radioactivity. If Josh ever has the misfortune of being exposed to this cast of creatures climbing around within my family tree and he has the utter misfortune of seeing the "nuts" fall to the ground, he may have second thoughts about me and our relationship.  

I use my frequent flyer miles to book my Memphis trip, first-class, round trip. When I arrive at the airport to begin my journey, I buy a newspaper and a paperback to read while I am traveling. Fate must be smiling upon me. The in-flight meal is excellent, the flight attendants are spectacular, and I make all my connections with time to spare for a latte during my final transit. This is the smoothest night flight I have ever had.     

I arrive. I splurge. I avoid several relatives meandering in the hotel lobby. I check into the Presidential Suite at the Coral Resort. I know I am being extravagant, but I want a nice room and I am willing to pay for an extra day’s stay if it means not sleepwalking around the resort grounds in a perpetual daze until the 2 P.M. check-in time.  

Several hours later, after a restful sleep, talking to Josh, my precious fiancee, and consuming select items from a great room service menu, my appearance and my attitude are uplifted. I am looking forward to this reunion. Within a short time, I am going to take center stage. I check the mirror one more time and I see perfection looking back at me. I decide to wait until 7:10 P.M. to exit out of my luxurious room. I practice the self-congratulatory speech I wrote during my flight time. I am ready and I look forward to saying: “I thought, why not book the Presidential Suite. Now that you are a Vice-President at Litton, Hospital Services, live a little. You deserve it.” I can’t wait to say these lines of self-praise.  

Wearing a gauzy purple dress with matching Manolo Blahnik shoes, I concede, I look like I am going to the Oscars or the Academy Awards. I have been preparing for ten years for this performance. I have only gotten more attractive, yes, just ask my discarded beaus, with the passage of time. I acknowledge, I have had some surgical help, but I have also invested a lot of hard work into creating the finished product, a beautiful me.  

While checking my artfully-applied make-up, one more time, I take another gulp of champagne to foster my liquid courage. One perk of booking the Presidential Suite is the “free” bottle of

champagne. Everyone knows champagne does not last, the bubbles dissipate, and the invitation does say you should drink before you come because it is a no host bar. I finish the bottle. This time, I comply and faithfully follow the request of drinking before you come to the reunion. Maybe granny does have some good advice to offer, after all.    

Slightly stumbling into the elevator, I press the button for the ballroom area on the second floor. As I exit the elevator, a good-looking guy waves from the reception room door and says: "Welcome to the party." There are at least two hundred or more people in this room. This place is happening. Good conversations flushed with booze flow and I am feeling good. Someone in the family must have sprung for a hosted bar. People are dancing, laughing and sharing their problems and accomplishments that have occurred in the last several years. No one is spouting any false, idealized family memories. Everyone I talk to about my accomplishments, like becoming a vice-president, listen and they ask relevant questions. It seems like my entire family has had an upsurge in their intellectual quotient. What a difference the passage of a decade makes. I am glad to be here, and I wish Josh was a witness and a participant in this fun family celebration. Good karma must be on my side. Somehow, I avoid my immediate family and my other critical and boastful relatives. I figure the size of this crowd has insulated me from their negativity. Nothing is going to ruin this memorable night for me. I wonder what the job opportunities are like for me in Memphis. Would Josh move with me if he could find suitable employment?

By 11 P.M., the festivities are slowing down and drawing to a close. We are all saying our goodbyes and as I exit the room, I see a sign saying: "Rose Room." As the night ends, I saunter by another ballroom, named the Hawaiian Room. I hear Jean and Bill in the background saying: “Where have you been? You are missing everything. I thought you were checking into the hotel early this morning.” I sober up quickly when I realize that I’ve been at the wrong family reunion and it has never felt so right. I pick up my pace. I have to get back to my Presidential Suite. I need my rest. Tomorrow, at noon, my new family and I are having brunch by the poolside.