I tried hard to hate Cousin M. He’s an honest-to-goodness Beverly Hills doctor with a mansion in ritzy Encino, a million miles above the San Fernando Valley and its twinkling lights. You can see the Santa Monica mountains from his patio and crowded constellations of stars above – where I live, stars are seldom visible through the smog.
We visited Cousin M today to retrieve a second roomful of cast-off furniture. Or so I thought. For 17 years, I’ve shoved, squeezed and wriggled my worldly possessions into his cheap-ass bachelor furniture, with its warped particle board, broken handles and splintered joints. It’s followed me to nine different addresses in four states. Whenever I remind him of it, he gapes at me with mixed astonishment and pity.
M always had “bred for success” stamped on him. Athletic, hunky and smart, he took no notice of his shy, bookish cousin. I was also nine years his junior, knew nothing about football and suffered from a severe lack of bodacious female friends for him to hit on. I existed in some netherworld where the non-beautiful people are exiled along with unwanted possessions and fuel-efficient cars.
When we moved to LA, I looked him up reluctantly, visited him infrequently, made awkward conversation about the housing market or family gossip or life in L.A. Somewhere along the line, I started laughing at his jokes. I began asking about the train wreck of his marriage, earned hugs from his out-of-wedlock son, befriended his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and traded war stories about sickly, stubborn, crochety parents, who happen to have been fished from the bottom of the same gene pool.
I learned he was human and could hurt – a lot, as it turned out – and possessed a sharp tongue, an encyclopedic knowledge of current events and a hugely bad collection of ‘70s disco music.
When Plosh and I showed up today, I had no idea it was for a party. I never thought M would admit publicly to being related to me. Yet there we were, meeting his buddies and their trophy women and his funny, effervescent, Yenta of an office manager. I got my mind off some oppressive personal grief and had fun. One of the trophy girlfriends gave Plosh an appraising look and made his week. Everyone loved Minitaur, which isn’t hard, so I was spared having to talk about myself.
And then came the furniture: a colorful plastic desk with places for crayons and paints, plus matching chair. A chest the size of a steamer trunk apparently chock-full of toys (I haven’t seen them yet). Then another box of toys – helicopters and trains and enormous cars that all run and will keep us at the mercy of Duracell for years. A box of clothes; nice stuff, designer sweats and sports clothes in mint condition. We’d driven in separate cars, neither of which is a Mercedez, and filled both.
It still sucks to feel like the poor cousin in the family. M’s kindness and generosity is taking much of the sting out if it, however. I find I really like the guy, and not just because his hand-me-downs have improved.
Sounds like a blast! We just recieved a bunch of "castoffs" from some friends and they're all in pristine condition and have designer labels we could never afford. I'm sure there will come a time when Sydney refuses to wear clothes from someone else, but for now it's a fun way to get things that are different from our usual purchasing style and way more ritzy.
Cousin M sounds fun and rather endearing. At least he's not a big pompous jerk and the furniture sound charming.
Posted by: Faith | September 06, 2004 at 06:39 AM