"He wore that cowboy hat to cover up his horns
"
So sums up my California uncle.
I caught my first glimpse of Fred through contacts glazed with the blear of 24 sleepless hours. Sure, I'd met my Dad's sister's second husband a few times before, but it had been about five years since the last time we spoke and from across the Reno/Tahoe International Airport, he looked like a different man. The wide-brimmed cowboy hat put his face in shadows, leaving only the Santa Claus beard and belly to indicate his identity. He was a lot bigger than I remembered and much older. And before I was within ear shot, I could hear him yelling, "Yeee haw, there's two hot ladies if I've ever seen 'em!" (My aunt was walking with me.) At the time it seemed charming. In a week it would progress from charming to annoying to downright scary.
I knew going into the California trip that Fred could be the wild card, the one element that made or ruined the entire experience. He lives in a different world than I do, and I understood that. Where I'm a pretty open-minded young woman who believes in education for all, equality for women and playing a foreign policy game that incorporates a global perspective, my uncle lives in a world where white men do and should dominate everything. I knew the collision of that world and mine could spell disaster, but I naively believed that if I kept my opinions quiet, he could be nice to me because I resemble (hell, share DNA with) his wife. Sometimes, I'm not right. This was one of those times.
The first few days of my trip were exciting. We drove through Tahoe and I saw mountains like none I've ever seen before. I got to see my cousins who I hadn't seen in ages; I met my cousin's wife for the first time. I ate some fantastic biscuits with sausage gravy. I watched the Steelers pound the Patriots from 3,000 miles away. It was good times.
Those good times started to turn bad on my third day in California. It was Monday and my aunt went to work, leaving me at home with retired Fred. He was remodeling a bathroom in their house and I heard him banging and clanging at 9 a.m., my hint to get out of bed. I showered, made myself some breakfast and--for lack of anything better to do--parked myself at their kitchen table with some coffee and "Shopaholic and Sister" (a very good light read, by the way). After about an hour, Fred barreled into the room and declared himself ready for a break. He plopped down beside me, poured himself a Pepsi and began talk about sex. I kid you not--sex. In just a few minutes, I learned that he slept with 500 woman before he married my aunt, that he cheated on his first wife but not my aunt, that he thinks woman have bad breath because they don't go the bathroom enough, and that Viagra is the best thing to happen to sex in the history of the world.
I've had many "this cannot possibly be happening to me" moments in my life, situations that only I seem to get into. And this was another. Call me crazy, but listening to my aunt's husband (who is at least 60) talk about sex made me just a smidge uncomfortable. OK, in truth, it made me want to hit the highway. I didn't want to know that stuff! I didn't care. Yet he kept talking about it--for at least an hour. He finally noticed that I was blushing, and said "I can tell you're not used to talking about this with a man." Man? Grandpa more like! I said that I'd talked about stuff like this with my own friends, but it was a little strange discussing it with him. I pointedly looked down at my book--to let him know I wanted to get back to my story--and then he started talking sex again.
That's when I felt the first twinges of fear. Here I was, alone in the house with a sex-obsessed man who had been with at least 500 women, and there was nothing around for at least five acres. I started walking around the kitchen--gathering up dishes and keeping busy--until he got the hint that I was done talking. For the rest of the day, I sat outside with the dog and read my book. No more problems.
(Let me just note here that he never attacked me or anything. He's an ass, but not a rapist.)
Life in my uncle's house (for I soon learned that my aunt did all the work, but Fred dictated what happened, when it happened and who should do it) is awkward and uncomfortable. If it were music, it would be like NSYNC singing the Hallelujah chorus: one big mistake after another. He made it clear that he expected everyone to go to bed when he did (9:30 p.m.), eat when he did and watch his television programs--pro bull riding, NASCAR, hunting shows or John Wayne movies. Once, he flipped to one of my all-time favorites by accident and I said, "I LOVE that movie! It's so good!" Flip, went the remote, right past the movie. "Good thing I have it on DVD," I retorted.
I could go on and on for endless pages about what a weirdo Fred is. I could tell you about how he bossed me around and called me "Girl" all the time or how he screams when he talks, so much so that my ears would ring all night. I could tell you about how he introduced me to his friends as "Susie the Democrat," then told them how much time I spent in the bathroom each day. But those stories don't even compare to what happened my fifth night in California.
My cousin and his wife had asked me to come stay with them on Tuesday night as a way to get me away from Fred. I gladly agreed and so spent Tuesday night and all day Wednesday with them. Although they wanted me to stay with them Wednesday too, I couldn't because I had some computer things to do and they were Internet-less. Anyway, we made arrangements to meet my aunt and uncle at a restaurant, so we'd all have dinner together and then I'd go home with my aunt and uncle.
Seems like a simple plan, but the whole night was a disaster. I had spent an amazing day with my cousin-in-law, doing girly things like shopping and going to the movies. So I found myself dreading the trip back to my aunt's place. Going back there seemed like a death sentence. By the time my aunt and uncle arrived at the restaurant, I had drunk two Cosmopolitans, so I was looser-lipped than I had been the entire trip.
As soon as the waitress came to our table, Fred asked her what her name was and started flirting with her. He gave her grief when he ordered ("April, honey, I want my ribs pink in the middle. If they ain't pink, I'm sending those ribs back, sweetheart") and threw a tantrum when he discovered that this private brewery didn't sell Miller Light. I started stewing in my corner--waitresses aren't paid well enough to be simultaneously sexualized and patronized. She returned with the food and he scolded her for bringing Heinz ketchup. (A staunch W supporter, he was infuriated with anything related to Kerry. Didn't matter that any other ketchup tastes like crap.) Finally, he started telling my cousin-in-law a story that made me lose my cool:
"You want to know how to piss Brittany off," he said. (Brittany is my other cousin-in-law.) "I'll sit in the living room and I'll say 'Cheri, I am so hungry for brownies.' And Cheri gets up and makes then for me."
(Cheri is my aunt.)
I couldn't take it any more. "That would burn my ass, too," I said with quiet fury. And I swear a spotlight dropped down from the ceiling and everyone stopped talking in the restaurant. It was like one of those scenes in a movie where everyone freezes in place, stunned at the utter stupidity of what someone has said.
Fred jumped down my throat while everyone else just stared at me. "I don't understand you G-D feminists," he roars. "What the hell is the matter with you? What's so G-D wrong with making a pan of mother f-ing brownies?"
I was a guest in this person's home, so I kept it clean and nice. "Well, it's different if I want to do something special for dessert, or if the entire family wants some," I said. "But just because you say you're hungry for them doesn't mean I have to make them. You can add eggs and oil to the mix as well as anyone else can."
Stunned silence once again. My uncle's face conveyed absolute disgust. But he didn't reply. Instead, my aunt did the honors.
"And that's why you're still alone."
Cut off my arms, leave me to bleed to death, and I wouldn't have hurt as much. My worst fears were confirmed: I was indeed alone in life not because of bad luck or horrible timing, but because of me. I was defective and apparently everyone knew it but me. Even these relatives--my flesh and blood--knew in just five days that I was messed up beyond help and confirmed my own worst suspicion that I was innately unlovable.
I didn't know what to do, but luckily my cousin stepped in and made some kind of joke that smoothed over the tension. I fiddled with my straw and looked at my plate until dinner was over, keeping my mouth shut. Finally Fred declared it was time to leave and he and my aunt headed for the bathrooms. And then my cousin-in-law grabbed me by the arm and ran me outside, where I cried uncontrollably while she told me how untrue their comments were and that, in knowing me for just a few days, she could tell that I was a fantastic person who just hadn't met the right person yet. My cousin (who has always kind of been my hero) begged me to stay with them again, but at that point it would have looked suspicious. I had to return to my aunt's home. And I had to act like nothing had happened.
(Continued in "CA Part II: The Good")
