When my sister’s sister-in-law was in South Beach with her boyfriend and his family they walked into what they thought was a museum, sat down and asked somebody where the bathroom was.
It turned out to be Versace’s mansion and when my then ten year old niece heard the story she thought it was the funniest story she had ever heard. They just walked into the house he had been killed in; fabulous security Donatella installed.
In order for my niece to graduate from elementary school she had to do a family heritage albumn that had to include grandparents, parents, and siblings, if any. But not aunts or uncles.
My niece put a picture of my sister’s sister-in-law, her boyfriend and his entire family in the heritage albumn along with the story.
I’m not included. Now I have told her funny stories until I have fallen down exhausted; I buy her Juicy clothes and jewelry from Tiffany’s. It’s not the presents that I care about. I have told her some darn funny stories; I am the funny aunt. I’m also the aunt she can ask the embarrassing questions to, and I know that counts more than anything but I really really really want to make it into the family heritage albumn. Don’t they remember me when I’m not around? Do I have to say:
“hey I was adopted. I’m playing the so I’m finally being treated as the adopted one after our parents are dead?”
“I don’t get into the albumn because I don’t have a male half?”
They’re kinda immature but works as a final way of assuring my place in the family heritage abumn. But I decided to go for mature.
“So why aren’t I in the albumn?”
“I didn’t want her to do aunts at all.”
“So why didn’t you tell her that?”
“Because she really loved the story and had a picture of all of them.”
Have to interject here that if I were my sister I would have said:
“you have two aunts. Both go in or neither do.”
But I’m not my sister. I remembered a story and a great picture; I mean a really good seen by millions picture.
“Remember the picture of me in the national magazine last spring when fave niece was making her albumn?”
“You called me and told me about it, but didn’t believe it was me because I hadn’t told you?”
“And I didn’t get my copy until the next day, and then I spent eight hours looking at it until I was sure it was me?”
“Well wasn’t that a funny story with a good picture?”
The picture had been taken the year before at a launch party for a new magazine. The pictures accompanying the article were individual ones of prototype New Yorkers with a certain edge. Everybody was dressed in all white or brown; I was dressed in all white, and the background had been digitized.
I’m going to be in the family heritage albumn. I also made sure that my niece understood that I lived in the street next to Versace’s East 64th Street Townhouse when he was alive; Ivana Trump lives on that block as does many other famous people.
I made sure that she understood that Rafe’s hairsalon was on 64th but is now on East 65th, and she will be pampered when she chooses to spend the day with me exploring my old neighborhood.
Sometimes I have to fight with whatever means necessary to have my place in the family heritage albumn. I think our parents would have wanted that.