FAROLD’S COUSIN, PT. 2, and A LETTER

While doing the laundry New Year’s week, imagine my surprise to find twice as many of my underpants in the wash than I had worn! This was very mysterious. I asked Seymour, who said he was no longer borrowing them for his mortuary science classes. Fenwick said he was no longer able to wear them, as his hind quarters have ballooned from eating too many Christmas sweets. That only left Fenwick’s cousin Farold, who was still with us at that point.

Farold put up such a fuss and huff and ballyhoo when I asked him. I wasn’t peeved until then, because I know from experience that many men enjoy trying on ladies undies. My mama taught me this at an early age, when my high school beaus appeared more interested in being alone with my dresser than with me.

My suspicions were confirmed when I entered Violet’s Vintage Lingerie for the very first time in my life to check out their New Year’s sale. When I went to purchase a gorgeous, slightly used, pink lace thong onesie, Violet looked at me suspiciously when I handed her my credit card.

“What are the chances there are two Irmagarde Beatrice Crabby’s in Monrovia?” she asked.

Apparently someone using my same credit card and my name had been in Violet’s Vintage Lingerie the day before and had purchased $2,016.32 of vintage hinder binders and boulder holders on my card! This also explained why the card was maxed out and Violet had to sorrowfully cut it in two.

Violet, having a private stock of “previously worn by stars” underthings, under lock and key, employs the use of a security camera. After I had satisfactorily proven to her that I was indeed the one and only Irmagarde Beatrice Crabby, she agreed to pull the footage. Here is what was found:

Cousin Farold

Fenwick’s cousin was wearing my best tiara and red business suit, as well as a horribly styled wig. And I certainly do not wear glasses like this! He didn’t even get the lipstick on correctly! Such a travesty.

Violet kindly printed a copy of the photo for me, as well as the receipt, showing the date when Fenwick, if he can only remember that far back, will recall we were dumpster shopping for groceries. We always write the date on our arms in sharpie, to be safe with expiration dates.

When we confronted Cousin Farold, he just laughed and shrugged and started singing “We Wish Me a Merry Christmas,” as he packed up his things and left. I have made Fenwick agree, in writing, that no more of his relatives will stay with us, in a written contract. Hons, it is worth losing that credit card, because the agreement is a blanket one, so this means no more visits from Mother Crabby unless she stays in her own hotel!! “We Wish ME a Merry Christmas!”

Now, here’s a short letter from Mollie Sagajaw in Rhode Island:

Dear Mrs. Crabby,

I dearly love Christmas. Always have. And New Year’s. The holidays are the only time of year I feel any kind of magic in the world.

But my family is only interested in one thing. “What am I getting?” and afterward “What did you get.” They even trade gifts amongst each other if they don’t like what they were given!! And some of these trades are items I have worked all year to hand make!

That’s not the worst of it though. I send gifts to grandchildren who cannot come to celebrate in person. And do you thing I get a thank you note? No!! Not even a phone call or an e-mail. I don’t want to say anything directly to their parents, because that would make me sound like a meanie. So I just say things like, “Did they NOTice their gift was hand-made?” or “Did they THINK YOU gave it to them and NOTice it was from me?” But this does no good.

I usually send a check along with the gift, but I am so peeved of year after year of ingrates for grandkids that next year I’m going to send them all a coal briquet wrapped in a photo of Ebeneezer Scrooge.

Why aren’t kids more grateful these days?

Signed Maligned Mollie

Dear Mollie,

Hon, hon, hon. You’re not “maligned.” You’re ignored. Which is rude, indeed.

Your way of dealing with this problem is called “passive/aggressive.” This is a hostile behavior. It is not nice at all, and tells us that you are really a seething bitch under all your good manners. I do not say this to insult you, though I’m sure you’re quite pissed with me at reading this. It’s just true. I say it because being passive/aggressive does nothing but make you miserable. So then, you are a miserable, seething bitch. I suggest you just stop it and try a new approach to get these hurt feelings off your shoulders.

First, understand that kids everywhere have stopped sending thank you notes. You can thank their teachers for part of this, because most schools have stopped teaching cursive writing and the art of letters. There are no more “pen pals” and no more lessons on hand writing notes. Done and done. It’s all typing into electronic devices now.

Second, understand that your own kids absolutely hated writing these notes. Most times the gifts were things that were not wanted or needed or didn’t fit at all. Except the money. And in many cases nowadays, the kids never get the money as the parents take it. Even when you send something they like, parents don’t encourage the expression of a thank you. We live in the age of “entitlement” thinking. We all feel entitled to get stuff. Even when we have paid for it ourselves (such as social security, which is now called an “entitlement” in a backwards sense as it’s the government who feels entitled to take it for themselves).

But that doesn’t help you. You need to express these angry feelings. Here’s my suggestion. You send them a box of notes with options and boxes. The notes read “Dear Grandma, Thank you so much for the -gift -money -kind thoughts (they check one); I sure love you a lot. How wonderful that on my deathbed I will remember how grateful you were. Signed (insert name here)”. And send these with SASEs. Enclose with a note that says simply, “No Thank-y, No money, Love, Grandma.” This way you can still act out in your habitually passive/aggressive way while at the same time telling them directly what you expect for your efforts!

Best to you, hon,

IB Crabby

Yep!

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