As the owner of fewer toes than nearly all of my hundreds of close relatives, I probably should be more sensitive about where I walk and anticipate whose toes I may be treading upon next.
You might say my family is slightly touchy about its feelings — if you prefer to dwell in understatements. They try to offset their permanent state of electrifying tension by preening their pachyderm-like memories.
You don’t think I have forgotten what you said to me on June 19, 1963?
My family is in the “Oh, My, Am I Emotionally Wounded by You?” Hall of Fame when it comes to imaginatively hurt feelings.
You came within 73 miles of our house last night. And you didn’t stop in when we haven’t seen you since 1990? The next audible is the familiar click of a hangup.
One of my elderly aunts wasn’t sure she could visit her dying sister in a nearby hospital last year because the day clashed with her weekly hair appointment. It was not a cinch the elder sister would attend her sibling’s funeral a few days later. Happily, possibly even fiendishly, the funeral coincided with the one day of the week the beauty salon was closed.
This Really Happened
Lest we tarry, let us hurry to a genuinely embarrassing case of accidental hurt-feelings that occurred yesterday morning.
I received a Facebook message from a relative named Noonan. I will not disclose her first name because it would be too easy to trace. Let’s call her Shelly.
I don’t know a Shelly Noonan, but instinctively I responded to the Facebook because she sounded like a cousin, by marriage, by divorce or by birth.
I composed a succinct generic response, inviting her at the end to look up my newspaper.
How innocuous.
Oh, yeah?
Shelly’s strikingly cool, brief response included the following arresting sentence:
“I think I will pass on the newspaper.”
You see, when Shelly visited thefrontpageonline.com, looking for my byline, a headline on the first story screamed:
“The Judge’s First Words: I Feel So Darned Gay.”
It was a satirical inspection of yesterday’s ruling that killed the Prop. 8 vote of two years ago.
How was I to know that on the very day that commentary appeared, I would encounter a gay relative of whom I never had heard?
She must have felt sandbagged.
Here is poor Shelly’s complete answer to my Facebook dispatch to her:
“I'm still trying to figure out the family tree. I wasn't able to make it to Uncle Art's funeral either–we were in London. I'll pass on the newspaper–I'm married to a woman (in legal and religious ceremonies), we have a son, and are deeply invested in legal decisions that protect our family. As far as family news goes, I'm happy to get to know you.”
Comment: Out of embarrassment, none.
