While my grandmother’s sisters frequently came to call much to her delight, nothing created the palpable air of excitement and great anticipation like the annual visit of her only brother.Born a few years after Trixie, Bennett Baudelaire was the youngest of six children and doted upon by all five of his sisters. Tintypes or whatever was passing for photos back in the Flintstones age showed him to be quite a dandy even as a child. While his sisters stood sullen and raggedy around him, Bennett was in the forefront of these photos, dressed in the finest knickers and sporting a cap, his arms akimbo and a dazzling smile plastered across his face. He looked like every kid you ever wanted to kick the shit out of after school. And yet despite this air of assumed superiority, Bennett’s sisters looked upon him as though he were God himself.

After finishing high school — as the only son, he would need an education! — Bennett struck off on his own to see the world and make his fortune. Following a brief sojourn in San Francisco, he ended up in Nevada where he met the mesmerizing and ethereal Beulah, an ebony tressed waitress and part time pawn shop clerk with a taste for the finer things. They were soon married and raising 3 daughters of their own. Together, Bennett and Beulah would get in on the ground floor of the Nevada real estate boom and make their fortunes.

But alas, like the tale of Trudy and Milton, Bennett and Beulah’s love story also came to a tragic and premature end. A life long chain smoker, Beulah was killed when she was thrown from a horse.

Bereft and inconsolable, Bennett spent the next few years raising his daughters and concentrating on the business. After much cajoling and nagging from his offspring, he once again dipped his toe in the dating waters. And being a dashing man in his 60s with a wardrobe Porter Wagoner would have committed crimes against humanity for, Bennett found himself at no loss for female companionship.

Every trip back home would find him accompanied by an different lady friend, each clad in frou frou couture and scrunching her nose up at Bennett’s humble roots. There was Christine, who refused to sit down lest she get cat hair on her pantsuit, choosing instead to stand beside Bennett’s chair for hours drinking tea and looking like an escapee from Madame Tussauds; Evelyn, a widow with a taste for hard liquor and ballroom dancing; Joan, who corrected our abysmal table manners and shameful grasp of the English language every chance she got; and then there was the only woman who ever accompanied him on more than one trip, Lucy.A diminutive woman a foot shorter than Bennett, Lucy was a champion poodle breeder, who always made the trip with at least one dog in tow. We never saw Lucy in anything other than jeans and cotton shirts with the sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. She was always friendly and open, presenting herself as a real person with a warm heart and a good head on her shoulders.

Well, a warm heart anyway.

Our opinion of that good head part shifted ever so slightly on their third trip together, which coincided with Bennett’s 70-something birthday. That was the year Lucy brought along a large grey poodle, Commodore, who we learned upon their arrival was suffering from a case of the “I-can’t-shit”s. Yep, the poor lil pom-pom-ed poochie was constipated.

Fast forward to Saturday and Bennett’s birthday party. Everyone was there: Trudy, Trixie, Dolly, Carrie, Tess, even Aunt Carol and Uncle Rob. As everyone dined on Bennett’s favorite meal of fried chicken and biscuits, Commodore began to whine. Soon, it was a low howl.If you’ve ever tried to eat and enjoy light conversation with a death rattle as the soundtrack, then you know how difficult this can be. But if there is one thing my family excels at, it’s ignoring the suffering of others — including one of their own — so they just ate and talked louder, until Lucy eventually took Commodore out for another walk in the hopes of his producing some turdage.

Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be.

Shortly after her return, we all gathered around the birthday boy and sang a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday.” After he had blown out the candles — a confetti colored “7″ and some other number — Carrie began serving cake and ice cream. Seated once more in the living room, we noticed that Lucy and Commodore were again missing. But since there were more pressing matters in the form of our sinfully delicious desserts, we quickly forgot about her.

That is until Aunt Carrie had to “make a tinkle.”

Here’s how it went down:

Aunt Carrie excused herself and made her way to the bathroom.

Seconds later, an ear piercing howl assaulted our ears.

Clutching her peter pan collar, an ashen Carrie staggered back into the living room, her mouth attempting to form words but making no sound. Her eyes darted about the room, moving from face to face for a few moments, until she lurched into the kitchen. Seconds later, everyone followed en masse.

Everyone, that is, except for my mother and me.

Both being strong believers that no second hand account could ever substitute for being there, we headed straight for the bathroom. My mother gently gave the door a push, revealing to us a tableau no sane mind (or in my mother’s case, no insane one) could have conceived of.

Commodore in the bathroom sink.

Lucy’s left hand gripping his collar.

And her right hand?

Gripping a teaspoon.

Which she was using to extract the shit from the purebred’s ass.

“He has an impaction,” Lucy announced, her eyes never leaving Commodore’s puckered back door. “If I don’t get it out, he could suffer a ruptured bowel. I’ve had to do this before…he’ll get a hard nugget just lodged in there and it will completely back him up.”

“Huh. Well, we’ll let you take care of that,” my mother said, shutting the door. Seconds later, we both burst into peals of laughter.

***Epilogue: Carrie stood outside the bathroom door until Lucy had finished, then took the teaspoon in question, wrapped it in several pieces of paper towel, placed the mummified utensil inside a bread wrapper which she tied shut and then took immediately to the garbage can.

Bennett and Lucy stopped dating after their return home.

And years later, when told I would need an enema before surgery, I briefly considered the alternative, then quickly acquiesced.

As regular readers know by now, my childhood was far from normal. That is, unless you consider growing up with the Addams family normal. As if Old Boy and Aunt Carol weren’t crosses enough to bear, Mama Mancuso had five aunts of her own who frequently visited: uber-religious Aunt Dolly; egocentric Aunt Trudy; neat freak Aunt Carrie; chain-smoking Aunt Tess; and withered armed Aunt Trixie .

Now of the five, the most beloved was Crazy Aunt Trudy. How do I know this? Well, mostly because she told everyone so.

Born on February 9th, 1911, Trudy Ruth Baudelaire was the second of my grandmother Alice’s four younger sisters and, by all accounts, a bitch from the get-go. My grandmother being the oldest of the girls, had to quit school after the sixth grade to help take care of her sisters. By the time she was 20, my grandmother had a job at a laundry on a military base, where she caught the eye of an officer, Milton. As family legend has it, the two of them fell for each other pretty hard and dated for several months. Then, my great grandmother began having trouble with her late in life pregnancy (i.e. Trixie) and required near round the clock care from my grandmother. Seeing her chance to snag a military husband, Trudy paid a visit to the Officer’s Club and began seeing Milton on the sly. My grandmother learned about this one day while walking to work and seeing them strolling arm in arm. Spotting my grandmother, Trudy was only too thrilled to show off her new engagement ring. Until her dying day, my grandmother lamented Trudy stealing the life that should’ve been hers.

Shortly after they were married, Milton was sent overseas and Trudy followed along, thrilled to see the world and enjoy the benefits of being an officer’s wife. While overseas, Trudy learned she was unable to bear children and adopted a chihuahua which she christened Skeeter. Like Trudy, Skeeter was beloved by all who beheld him. According to Trudy, once she and Uncle Milton were back in the states they took my mother on a trip to Florida in their “glorious camper home” and while visiting the Everglades, an alligator came up out of the water and tried to eat Skeeter.

“But Lola loved that dog more than life itself and rushed forward and snatched my precious Skeeter from the jaws of that beast! She risked her own life to save my precious baby because she loved him as much as me!” Trudy would proclaim, closing her eyes and clutching at the waddle of wrinkled flesh hanging over her trademark see-through turtleneck sweater.

My mother had a slightly different take. “That little fucker looked like a goddamn rat and barked at everything that moved. And when he wasn’t barking, he was pissing on something. I would have no more tried to save that little bastard than I would a baby killer. But I didn’t have to. There was never any alligator. If there had been, I’d have punted the little fucker into its mouth, shoved Trudy down in its path, and made a beeline for the camper. Loved that dog my ass.”

By all accounts (well, all of Trudy’s anyway), she and Milton were the couple for whom the sonnets were written, for whom the stars shined, and around whom the world revolved. Blissfully happy and forever faithful, theirs was a love that comes around once in a lifetime, if that.

Again, others held differing opinions.

“Oh, they were in love,” Aunt Tess once told me, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth while she nursed a brandy laced cofee, “if you consider love to be him screwing every hostess at the Officer’s Club and her having sex on the desk in his office with one of his friends. Hell, one time me and her tied one on and picked up a couple of guys in this bar…”

“They fought like cats and dogs. Him drinking all the time and her throwing things at him and screaming,” I overheard Aunt Carrie telling my grandmother one day. “And then she tries to make out like they were some perfect couple.”

Even Trixie had an opinion. “That old bitch had hot pants for as long as I can remember. Him too. I don’t know who they were trying to fool. We all knew they were cheating on each other.”

But like all great love stories, theirs too came to an end…with Milton suffering a fatal heart attack while they were stationed in California. Trudy was devastated, but refused to move back home. According to her, she had fashioned a life on the coast and did not want to leave her memories of Milton there. Instead she paid month long visits twice a year, spending a week with each of her sisters. These visits were dreaded by all.

The first visit of hers that I recall in vivid detail took place in July of 1976 (I recall this because I fell and chipped my front tooth a few days before the Bi-centennial parade). My grandmother had been struck with a serious case of pneumonia, and Trudy, realizing that she would not be the center of attention, instead opted to stay at our house for the week.

The first night she arrived, Trudy sat down on the sofa beside Old Boy and kept patting his knee, telling him he was a big strong man and how handsome he was. Then a Sally Struthers “Feed the Children” commercial came on and Trudy kicked it into drag queen drama mode.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, nooooooooo,” she cried, one hand pressed to her bosom, the other rubbing her temple. “Those pooooooooor children! Look at them! Ohhhhhhhhhh why do they put that stuff on the television?” And then without a beat: “Hold me, Old Boy. I need to feel safe.”

I was transfixed. Surely this could not be happening. Another woman succumbing to the supposed charms of that personality free troll? But then a lightbulb came on and I understood: Trudy was going all Erica Kane on his ass, working her wiles…faking interest to get something she wanted. And on the heels of that realization, I caught a glimpse of my mother, her mouth screwed up in an expression I well recognized. It was the one that said “I’m am weighing the satisfaction I will get from kicking your ass against the prison time involved once I am caught.”

After careful consideration, my mother got up and turned off the television. “There, Trudy. Now you won’t have to get all bent out of shape.”

It was on.

Over the next few days, Trudy spent as much time around Old Boy as possible, giggling and asking him to explain things to her, all the while shooting him come hither glances. And slowly but surely my mother came to a boil.

On her last day with us, Trudy went for the gold. She stayed in bed long after everyone else had gotten dressed and eaten, moaning loudly through the bedroom door.

“Let her lay in there and fucking playact,” my mother told me as she loaded sheets into the washer. “I am not buying into her shit.”

Around 10:30, Trudy got up and staggered into the kitchen wearing a housecoat and a pair of fashionable Isotoners. “I feel soooooooooo awful,” she announced to no one in particular as she made her way outside to the back patio and sprawled out on a chaise lounge directly in front of Old Boy who was working on the mower.

When the sheets spun out, my mother called me to help her hang them out on the line. As we were doing that, I glanced over at Trudy and did a classic double take.

Homina homina homina.

She was sprawled out talking to Old Boy, one leg hanging off the side, the other bent.

In her half buttoned housecoat.

Half buttoned from the top.

With no underwear.

“Um, Mom…”

“Hmm?”

“Aunt Trudy…she isn’t wearing any…uh, underwear…”

Cue the sound of a whip cracking as my mother’s head snapped to confirm what I had just told her.

“Son of a bitch.”

Without another word, my mother stormed over to the hose which she proceeded to use to drench Trudy from head to foot.

Trudy jumped up, shrieking and covering her face. My mother threw down the hose, glaring from Trudy to Old Boy and back again. “Now he can see all your shit, you stupid old bitch,” my mother screamed. “Now get your ass in the house, get your shit, and get the hell out!”

Trudy didn’t have to be told twice.

Unfortunately, she didn’t learn her lesson about not pissing my mother off. But that’s another story.