We Are Family (Not)

I was prompted to write this blog post by a telephone call to our house last night. It was my partner G’s mum (or as I call her the mother-out-law!) wanting to speak to V. G’s sister (a.k.a. the rich bitch) was having a party on Bonfire Night and did V want to go? Notice anything strange? How about that G and I aren’t invited? Well that’s simple – he hasn’t spoke to her for over 18 months and me even longer. But you say, why is the invite coming second hand via their mother? Surely V’s aunt could have phoned her on her mobile phone, having got the number from her mum? Or poked her on Facebook? Or e-mailed her? Three simple methods by which normal people communicate. Or so you would think.
But not in G’s family. You see, it’s a bit like some mediaeval saga. Or Shakespeare. King Lear even. You see, G’s older sister and brother are twins. And they have certain expectations that as they are the eldest they have to be the first to know things or to be consulted. All hell would break loose if they thought they had been missed out of the chain of command! And it goes the same for family affairs.
Around this time last year, the Rich Bitch’s (RB for short) only daughter was getting married in one of the swankiest hotels in Edinburgh. At a previous family gathering, I overheard RB and her twin’s wife discussing how her other niece (twin’s daughter – keep up!) was going to get fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress. When I asked about it, I was told that, no she wasn’t going to be a “bridesmaid” but there to “assist” the little flower girl. A task which normally falls to a bridesmaid. Add to that that said niece (who is a nice lassie) being the same age as V (V is only older by 6 weeks exactly but the whys and wherefores of that are for another time!) was plastering all over her Facebook page about how she was going to be a bridesmaid! V wasn’t too chuffed at this – it would have been nice to be asked and in a family where age does seem to give one seniority, it does seem to have been the thing to do. Except it wasn’t. So when the invitation popped through the door, we declined. Politely but firmly. And yes, after the wedding, there on Facebook were pictures of our sweet niece, all very grown up in her black (interesting choice of colour but hey, ho) formal dress along with the other bridesmaids in the same dress!
One, that was a bit of a cheek. And two, it’s a bit of a cheek also to contact V via her grandmother over a year afterwards.
But there you go – families – can’t live with them, can’t shoot them and get away with it.
The bad feeling between G’s sis and I stems from the early days of our acquaintance where, for reasons best known to herself, she started referring to me after her brother and I decided to live together as his “concubine”. Now call me sensitive, but isn’t that an old-fashioned term for a woman of a lower status? And inferior to a wife? As you can imagine things did not start well. I tried to get on with her but I always had the feeling that she looked down on me. And now that she is considerably well-to-do, the gap has widened. It’s not an issue for us but definitely for them – the kind of people always telling you about their trips to New Yawk. It didn’t help that, after telling her that we had found a very minor antique (a piece of Clarice Cliff pottery) amongst items G was given when his late granny (a very lovely lady with working class roots) had to go in to a care home when she developed dementia, we had G’s brother on the phone accusing us of stealing it and intending to sell it! You can imagine that did wonders for our relationship, after I phoned her and admittedly threatened her with some old-time fisticuffs.
For some reason, I just can’t get on with G’s people at all. Mind you, I don’t get on with my own but that’s another story for another blog. Suffice to say, as Armistead Maupin wrote so wonderfully for Mrs. Madrigal in his Tales Of The City books, we have our biological family, the one we are born into (or married or co-habited into, as in our case) and your logical family, the ones you choose.
I’ll leave you with this. On a recent trip to a Glasgow museum with G’s parents, we bumped into some old friends of theirs. G’s mum reminded them of who was who – her son, her grand-daughter and then, pointing to me, “This is Jeanne. She’s our…errr. Ahh..we don’t know what to call her…”. I’ve only been living with their youngest son for 25 and a half years now and am mother to their teenage grandchild! I think it’s about time she worked that one out x
PS – V’s declined the invitation, I’m proud to say.