The Boz
Today I think is a good day to discuss my Aunt Brenda. First off, she insisted when we were little - and, let's face it, even when we got older - that we call her Boz. This is probably all my fault, because the nickname came from me. When I was too little to know what I was doing, I couldn't pronounce Brenda so I called her Boz. Unfortunately, it stuck. This woman would make me call her Boz all the time, even when I was in the sixth grade and in front of my friends. It was horrendous, it really was.
I think the reason she had me do this - and she had everyone do this, really - is because she had this weird disorder in that she refused to grow up. I'm not talking like the normal complex where people maybe dress too young or play video games all day or whatever. No, this was one of those twisted cases where you just had to be like, "This is not my aunt," and try to convince yourself that just because she's family doesn't mean you have to a. be like her or b. even like her, but you do have to do c., which is deal with her.
For example, Boz kept all of her stuffed animals from when she was a kid. Even as a kid, she must have been a nut because she had these elaborate necklaces for her bears and lions and all and they each had a nametag pasted on. She couldn't just write the name tag; no, she had to find it written in a newspaper or magazine, cut it out, and then glue it to the necklace. I have to give her credit for having some very cool stuffed animals though. They were totally old school. She had Lola and Lamont, these two weird purple things and then she had two lions and two monkeys. She also had this blue bear... I forget the bear's name. The bear itself was kind of freaky because it had like a doll's face, but she liked it. In fact, she liked it so much that she never let me take that one home. That was the thing with Boz. She had all these stuffed animals set up on two twin beds in her guest room, and she would let me take home one, or, if I was really really lucky, a pair of them (the ones that were a matching set), but I had to sign them out and basically sign my life to her in case I lost one of them. I remember once I lost Peanut Butter's mittens and she yelled at me and my mother because now Jelly, the matching bear, would be very upset for her poor Peanut Butter. My aunt was about 30 years old when this conversation took place, ps. A total nutjob. This woman was just so meticulous about keeping her stuffed animals lined up so perfectly, it was insane. Even when I was like five, I had more maturity about the whole thing, but to my aunt, those were her kids and we better not mess with them. When I lost that Peanut Butter's mittens, I heard about it every single time I wanted to even touch another stuffed animal. (You can see I haven't really gotten over all of this.)
Anyhow, this all would be bad enough except that my aunt insisted on animating them. She made them talk and talked about them like they were real. Like that whole Jelly bit. She made everything real. She would talk to her car. Now, people name their cars and love them and all, but my aunt put a whole new spin on it. She named her car Silver Bell or Blue Bell and she would make us say hi to the car and basically wine and dine it before she even put the key in the ignition. But she was a zillion times worse with stuffed animals. It's all good when you're like three to have stuffed animals talking to you, but by what, age seven, you're done. Well, apparently not my aunt. Two quick stories:
1. When I was in the seventh grade, she took me to the Crystal Mall. We went to this store and saw a bear wearing a blue plaid dress that was a pretty cute bear, so she decided to buy it for me. She basically knocked down about three people who she claimed her aiming right for the bear - "and Penny looked so scared!" she said (Penny, of course, being the bear's new name) - and she bought it. Well on the way out of the store, we run into this whole group of kids who are my age. My aunt, totally oblivious to the rules of cool, picks the bear up out of the bag and says in this little kid voice, "Thank you, Elana for buying me and taking me home and giving me a nice place to live!" And then she proceeds to shove the bear in my face and make all these weird sounds the bear is making out with my now-beet-red face. The kids just looked at me like, what a loser. What a loser. And I really had no comeback. I mean, what do you do with that? Really, what can you say?
2. One afternoon when my aunt was pregnant with her twins, we went to see her. I was in her bedroom and I saw this list of names, so I asked her if those were the names she was considering for the babies. "Oh no," she said, completely serious and even more disturbing, with the conviction of a completely sane and unembarrassed person, "those are the names of the stuffed animals. See, every Saturday night, when Elliot (her questionable husband) and I watch Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman (I know, I know) the animals fight over who gets to watch with us, so we have a rotating list."
Wait, WHAT??
I mean, in that moment, it was all clear to me: my aunt is psychotic. In the past, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she's a bit daffy and all, but I always thought that was because she had some twisted view of how to relate to kids, like she thought they never really evolved past the age of four. But no. Apparently, SHE never evolved past the age of four, because she was making these lists for god knows what reason, and I mean, I had to seriously consider the possibility that she actually goes into her spare room and picks out two stuffed animals, brings them to her family room, sits them down, and converses with them about the plot of her favorite TV show. Is this for real? There's too much to deal with there to even begin to start thinking about her choice of entertainment (I mean, who actually WATCHED that show??). I think this little anecdote is enough to get her classified as some sort of DSM candidate. Either that, or those people who write it need to be talking to me, because they are definitely missing something.
Also, just in case you aren't convinced that she's a nut (though after that, I'm not sure what else I can add to the entry to top that), here are a few random pieces of evidence of her freakdom:
1. When she got married (finally), she had me, at age seven, be the official photographer. She also sat me and my four year old sister at the head table. My parents? Nah, they sat at a side table. I mean, I guess if you're into stuffed animals, we were your perfect dining companions, but I think this still adds to my case. The woman has about four grainy, out of focus and off-center pictures of her looking just... odd.
2. I never, ever heard my aunt swear. It doesn't surprise me, but if you ask me, a sane person lets a good "fuck" slip out every now and then. It's good for the soul.
3. Her most prized possessions - besides her stuffed animal friends - were these Madame Alexander dolls, which she kept in a glass case and proudly displayed in her living room. Those were her two main loves: stuffed animals and Madame Alexander dolls. Oh, and she also had hundred and hundred of video tapes of General Hospital.
I do have to end this with the one thing I do thank her for: she showed me, at age three, the movie "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" and it remains my top musical. I guess it goes to show you that even the crazy ones are useful in their own weirdo ways.
Sometimes I wonder if these people are only found in my family, if I'm the only one who deals with this shit. I'll tell you what. If nothing else, it makes life interesting.
I think the reason she had me do this - and she had everyone do this, really - is because she had this weird disorder in that she refused to grow up. I'm not talking like the normal complex where people maybe dress too young or play video games all day or whatever. No, this was one of those twisted cases where you just had to be like, "This is not my aunt," and try to convince yourself that just because she's family doesn't mean you have to a. be like her or b. even like her, but you do have to do c., which is deal with her.
For example, Boz kept all of her stuffed animals from when she was a kid. Even as a kid, she must have been a nut because she had these elaborate necklaces for her bears and lions and all and they each had a nametag pasted on. She couldn't just write the name tag; no, she had to find it written in a newspaper or magazine, cut it out, and then glue it to the necklace. I have to give her credit for having some very cool stuffed animals though. They were totally old school. She had Lola and Lamont, these two weird purple things and then she had two lions and two monkeys. She also had this blue bear... I forget the bear's name. The bear itself was kind of freaky because it had like a doll's face, but she liked it. In fact, she liked it so much that she never let me take that one home. That was the thing with Boz. She had all these stuffed animals set up on two twin beds in her guest room, and she would let me take home one, or, if I was really really lucky, a pair of them (the ones that were a matching set), but I had to sign them out and basically sign my life to her in case I lost one of them. I remember once I lost Peanut Butter's mittens and she yelled at me and my mother because now Jelly, the matching bear, would be very upset for her poor Peanut Butter. My aunt was about 30 years old when this conversation took place, ps. A total nutjob. This woman was just so meticulous about keeping her stuffed animals lined up so perfectly, it was insane. Even when I was like five, I had more maturity about the whole thing, but to my aunt, those were her kids and we better not mess with them. When I lost that Peanut Butter's mittens, I heard about it every single time I wanted to even touch another stuffed animal. (You can see I haven't really gotten over all of this.)
Anyhow, this all would be bad enough except that my aunt insisted on animating them. She made them talk and talked about them like they were real. Like that whole Jelly bit. She made everything real. She would talk to her car. Now, people name their cars and love them and all, but my aunt put a whole new spin on it. She named her car Silver Bell or Blue Bell and she would make us say hi to the car and basically wine and dine it before she even put the key in the ignition. But she was a zillion times worse with stuffed animals. It's all good when you're like three to have stuffed animals talking to you, but by what, age seven, you're done. Well, apparently not my aunt. Two quick stories:
1. When I was in the seventh grade, she took me to the Crystal Mall. We went to this store and saw a bear wearing a blue plaid dress that was a pretty cute bear, so she decided to buy it for me. She basically knocked down about three people who she claimed her aiming right for the bear - "and Penny looked so scared!" she said (Penny, of course, being the bear's new name) - and she bought it. Well on the way out of the store, we run into this whole group of kids who are my age. My aunt, totally oblivious to the rules of cool, picks the bear up out of the bag and says in this little kid voice, "Thank you, Elana for buying me and taking me home and giving me a nice place to live!" And then she proceeds to shove the bear in my face and make all these weird sounds the bear is making out with my now-beet-red face. The kids just looked at me like, what a loser. What a loser. And I really had no comeback. I mean, what do you do with that? Really, what can you say?
2. One afternoon when my aunt was pregnant with her twins, we went to see her. I was in her bedroom and I saw this list of names, so I asked her if those were the names she was considering for the babies. "Oh no," she said, completely serious and even more disturbing, with the conviction of a completely sane and unembarrassed person, "those are the names of the stuffed animals. See, every Saturday night, when Elliot (her questionable husband) and I watch Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman (I know, I know) the animals fight over who gets to watch with us, so we have a rotating list."
Wait, WHAT??
I mean, in that moment, it was all clear to me: my aunt is psychotic. In the past, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she's a bit daffy and all, but I always thought that was because she had some twisted view of how to relate to kids, like she thought they never really evolved past the age of four. But no. Apparently, SHE never evolved past the age of four, because she was making these lists for god knows what reason, and I mean, I had to seriously consider the possibility that she actually goes into her spare room and picks out two stuffed animals, brings them to her family room, sits them down, and converses with them about the plot of her favorite TV show. Is this for real? There's too much to deal with there to even begin to start thinking about her choice of entertainment (I mean, who actually WATCHED that show??). I think this little anecdote is enough to get her classified as some sort of DSM candidate. Either that, or those people who write it need to be talking to me, because they are definitely missing something.
Also, just in case you aren't convinced that she's a nut (though after that, I'm not sure what else I can add to the entry to top that), here are a few random pieces of evidence of her freakdom:
1. When she got married (finally), she had me, at age seven, be the official photographer. She also sat me and my four year old sister at the head table. My parents? Nah, they sat at a side table. I mean, I guess if you're into stuffed animals, we were your perfect dining companions, but I think this still adds to my case. The woman has about four grainy, out of focus and off-center pictures of her looking just... odd.
2. I never, ever heard my aunt swear. It doesn't surprise me, but if you ask me, a sane person lets a good "fuck" slip out every now and then. It's good for the soul.
3. Her most prized possessions - besides her stuffed animal friends - were these Madame Alexander dolls, which she kept in a glass case and proudly displayed in her living room. Those were her two main loves: stuffed animals and Madame Alexander dolls. Oh, and she also had hundred and hundred of video tapes of General Hospital.
I do have to end this with the one thing I do thank her for: she showed me, at age three, the movie "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" and it remains my top musical. I guess it goes to show you that even the crazy ones are useful in their own weirdo ways.
Sometimes I wonder if these people are only found in my family, if I'm the only one who deals with this shit. I'll tell you what. If nothing else, it makes life interesting.
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