Meet my family


	the works...


	Meet the family...

AUTHORS NOTE: All places names and situations in the following article are fictional. Any relation to actual places, persons or situations is purely coincidental. The author therefore does not accept responsibility for feuds, puttings-out or violence resulting from any misconceptions.

How many of you honestly think that your very existence is blighted, that you are the only person alive with a family as weird as yours, that yours was the only unusual childhood, that your case is unique? Please stand corrected. Let me introduce you to my family, the Carpenters.
Typical of millions of marriages of this time, my parents' marriage did not last, but that was not the point at which I first began to wonder about the sanity of my immediate family's sources. For instance, I didn't think that it was weird to have a pet, and so I asked for, and got one. I called it Jimmy. I talked to Jimmy, played with Jimmy, I even put Jimmy to sleep at the foot of my bed. At that time I didn't realize that other kids had animals for pets, so how was I to know that having a pet two-by-four was strange.
Jimmy was my childhood chum, we went through lots together. He chased cats, dogs, fruit from the neighbour's trees, my sister… yes Jimmy was a real sport. In fact, I never wondered why my parents gave me this pet, until that day when Jimmy chased, and caught, the living room window. Jimmy and I became ene

mies that day. My mother saw it fit to teach both Jimmy and I a lesson and so she put us to fight. It wasn't a fair fight though, and I'll never forgive Jimmy or any of his kind for betraying me. I was

made to take off my pants and lie on the bed while Jimmy did all the fighting. Right now I'd be happy to hear that Jimmy is a bunch of toothpicks.
The initial stages of the divorce were more like educational classes for us children. (There are six of us… what can I say? My parents didn't have a TV in the bedroom, nor did they have a bedside lamp, and you know as well as I do, that there are nights that you just don't feel like sleeping, nor do you feel like getting out of bed…) We would wake up, make that we were awaken at ungodly hours of the morning… (6 - 6:30… my parents believed in a good night's rest and an early

morning battle) to hear brand new cuss words, and if we weren't granted the privilege of hearing a new cuss word, my mother ensured that we learnt a new way to combine the cuss words that we already knew. She got pretty good at the cussing thing, sometimes I'd lie in my bed and cheer her on, especially when she got a really good streak going. Somehow, the good streaks

were all filled with stuff about my grandmother, uncles and aunts and what my father looked like. My father was never really good at the cussouts, in fact he lost them ten out of ten times. I used to think that the reason we ended up living with my mom was because she out-cussed him in court, then I heard that it was my father that had won, so my mom ended up living with us.

Living with my mom was a good thing. She could cook, unlike my father, who seemed to have a penchant for wood shavings, glue, mud and red beans. I can't begin to imagine what life (or rather, my stomach) would have been like if we had to live with my father. And I experienced his cooking, so I say these things with assurance. There was


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