Who are you most proud of (family)?

ct_thrash said:
My brother Phil (the 32 year old, non-DVD obsessed brother) does at least help out around the house. He cleans the house every day and doesn't really ask for much from my parents. And he's pleasant to be around, completely unlike the brother in the script posted above.

So, I got Phil a new guitar for Christmas. He's ridiculously good but hasn't had a guitar of his own in years. At least he can waste his time a little better once he has it, and won't have to ask me or Derick if he can borrow ours.

Patrick gets a Barnes & Noble gift card, and that's it :tickled:
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Haha playing favorites!


Hmmm. I guess I'm the most proud of my dad. His older brother was always the favorite can do no wrong brother, yet my dad is the one that cared for their ailing dad, let him move in with him and paid for everything, drove to Oklahoma every weekend to take care of his elderly aunt, and took care of his useless older brother's 4 sons, buying them clothes and taking them on trips and raising them while my uncle spent 18 hours a day at work raking in the 6 figures a year. My dad is 72 and hasn't been without a job since he was 15, I wish he could retire but money wise he can't. Yet I never hear him complain. He spent 25 years as an engineer for TI, traveling all over Asia and missing out on important events in my life but he always made it up to me and was honestly sad he couldn't be there. My mother and I never wanted for anything, he worked all the time and let us travel when and where we wanted to just because he wanted to see us happy. He cried for me when boys broke up with me, when my pets died, and was so proud of me when I started working for the police. All he wants is to see those he cares about happy and will do anything it takes to make them happy.

My mom is pretty similar, she quit her job to raise me and to take care of my great grandmother. She'll neglect herself and her health to help those in need and more often than not has done without so that others could have. No one in my family appreciates her or the things she does yet she keeps on doing what she feels is right and bending over backwards to help and make sure everything she does for them is nice and thoughtful. That's the main reason I can't stand anyone in my family, they don't recognize or care about the things my parents have done for them, and now I couldn't care less about the lot of them. I'm very proud of my mom and dad, we don't have a lot but I can always say I have two of the best parents ever and mean it.
 
I wish I could say the same for any of my family as all of you have. They're all shiftless back-stabbers, drug addicts, or heavily laden with neuroses (and this has nothing to do with personal perception, I've had outsiders verify the same.) But, if I should really be fair and pick the one who has done the best for him/herself... my cousin Harold (hates being called that.) He went from a cocaine addict and utter fucking dick with a criminal record to a full time construction foreman with a house, kids, a wife, and while he isn't rich, he gets by with a cushion of safety. And has remained clean for 15 years.
 
He borders on redneck Christian, but, when looking at where he was and that this very thing probably saved his ass, I let it go.
 
BlackwaterNymph said:
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Not really. I do love them both, but Patrick has expensive things bought for him all year long. He just got a big new TV a while back on no special occasion. Phil never gets anything. I showed my mom what I bought for him and she patted me on the back :lol:
 
I want a big TV for no reason! Your parents are way too nice. Which one has the long hair again?
 
Can't stand freeloaders, family or not.

Maybe it's just my megalomania, but I'm most happy with myself. My uncles are infinitely more wealthy and successful than I am, but only because they were perfect children, perfect students, and perfect pilots in the Air Force who now fly for airlines. Yes, they have anything they could possibly want and will never have to worry about anything financially, travel the world on a daily basis, and are of quite high culture. The reason I didn't choose them is because all they did was follow a formula for success without any real imagination of their own. They're not the most creative or impulsive people, to say the least. So, while they may have been fighter pilots and have umpteen degrees and make bajillions of dollars a year, they never really decided to do anything on their own, going against what others were telling them. They were all telling me, "You've got to stay in the military, finish your degree, and then get out if you want and get a high paying job and work for the rest of your life, blah blah blah." I told them that while that was good for them, it's not so good for me. I'm a creative person and gravitate towards cultural and creative aspects of life, while they are much more practical. They don't have a creative bone in their body. My oldest uncle is a fucking robot, practically. Keanu Reeves is like Jim Carrey in comparison.
So, I was the butt of behind-the-back conversations at the dinner table about how I'm fucking up, how irresponsible I am to leave the military and live in a foreign country because it's IMPOSSIBLE to do it or something. Three years later, they all want to come visit and all tell me how proud that I've completely immersed myself in a new language, culture, work environment, etc., blah blah blah.

I love my family, and I smile and nod and say "thank you" when they tell me that. But inside, a little part of me is saying, "Fuck you, I told you so. You doubted me my entire life and now you can eat shit." I think my coldness comes from them. A family full of college deans, profs, and fighter pilots kinda puts a little pressure on you to succeed. I tried to follow in those footsteps for a few years, then realized I physically could not do it, that I wasn't being honest with myself. Once you start being honest with yourself and your abilities and shortcomings, life is much better.
 
My maternal grandfather, Al, was ten years old when the Depression hit. His father ran a restaurant supply store, so his family always had enough to eat, but he did not have the temperament to work with the family business, and ended up dropping out of high school and working in theatre tech for a few years. When World War II hit, he joined the army and fought in North Africa and Italy; he never talked about his experiences in war, but my mom's theory was that he saw some truly horrible things there, and made the decision then to try and fill his life with beauty.

Al spent the last couple years of the war organizing USO shows for soldiers in the Pacific Theater, and then came back to America to work a succession of odd jobs. Working at a mountain resort, he met my grandmother on vacation with her family and very nearly proposed to her on the spot. They were married two years later, and lived in Brooklyn while Al worked his way into the world of advertising. Despite his lack of formal education, he was able to charm his way into what became a junior executive position with an international firm; ad campaigns he designed appeared all over the world.

While he enjoyed his work, his true passions were his family (two daughters and a son) and art collecting. Al had an amazing eye for beauty and quality, and had more than a few stories about pulling over at some roadside antiques show and picking up a piece of Americana for five or ten bucks that was later valued in the thousands. He went to Africa several times to inspect and purchase what the collectors of the time called "primitive art," and was always at least a decade ahead of the trend when it came to picking locations and styles that would become valued by the art community. I wouldn't say he was rich, but they were certainly very well-off, both materially and in the respect and friendship of their peers.

His son Ricky died a few years before I was born, of a pre-existing heart condition; Al was devastated, both by the loss of someone he loved, and, I think, by the fact that something this horrible could happen to his family and there was nothing he could do about it. In his declining years, he had a tendency to slip and call me "Ricky," which was more compliment than annoyance. He and his wife, my grandmother Mattie, moved out to San Francisco from New York about twelve years ago to be with their two daughters and their grandchildren. Al complained ceaselessly about the city at first, but always with the put-upon good humor that was his trademark, and eventually grew to love it.

About a year ago, Al suffered a stroke and a bad fall, with resulting brain damage. He and Mattie had already agreed that if something like this were to befall one of them, they would be allowed to go naturally. He spent the last six months of his life in various hospitals and rest centers; during one of his lucid periods, my immediate family, my aunt, and her boyfriend were all visiting him. I asked him "How'd you get this far, Al? Someone like you with no college, not even a high school degree, a New York bum like you, and here you are, eighty-seven years old, surrounded by the people you love with a hundred beautiful memories. How do you do that?"

He smiled a little vaguely and said simply "I never tried to hurt anyone. I just wanted life to be beautiful." I have never been more proud to be related to someone.

Al passed away in April 2007. The last conversation he ever had was with his wife, before she left the VA hospital for the day. He told her he loved her, and she replied "I love you more." He smiled, shook his head, said "I don't think so," and closed his eyes to sleep. He never woke up.
 
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