Systematic desensitization

I’m thinking about bronzing my Brother-In-Name-Only (BINO)'s shoes and hanging them from my rear-view mirror. Who cares that he is 60 and his shoes are a size 10? He is such a driving force in my life that having his shoes along for the ride just seems right.

BINO is emotionally retarded, which is understandable given the gene pool he swam in. He has more avoidant behaviors than a corpse. We communicate by email only--and only when The Bitch requires our intervention. I am fairly certain I have spoken to BINO by phone only three or four times my whole life. We don't do a whole lot better in person. When my son was in middle school, he and I went to see BINO’s daughter play soccer once. BINO noted our presence but didn’t make a move to sit with…or talk with us. Try explaining that one to your child.

Long story short, BINO married a moron. He considers her "the blessing of his life," which gives you an idea of how badly he was whooped by the loser stick. If his wife were merely stupid, she might be acceptable. But she’s a moron who is convinced she is always right. That it only took 30 years for us to come to blows is miraculous.

She and I are nearing the four-year anniversary of our not speaking. Except for the fact that my mother continues to breathe, it has been a blissful period in my life. The only time anyone misses my sister-in-law is when it is time to do the dishes on Thanksgiving. She always washed them all, and she always washed them well.

Not surprisingly, The Bitch holds me fully responsible for this fracture in her fantasy family. Three months ago, during a moment of insanity--or overcome by some smarmy emotion--I tried to reconcile with BINO and his dumbbell by suggesting that they join my husband and me for dinner.

I can hear you thinking, “Wow. That was nice of her.” Please don’t. My motive was divinely impure. I was hoping the gesture would give me the opportunity to tell The Bitch, “You can go now.”

My brother wrote back that he’d need to take “baby steps” in order to be able to break bread with me.

Baby steps? What the fuck does that mean? Does my poor BINO need some systematic desensitization? Try this, bro. Week one: back the car out of of the driveway. Week two: back the car out of the driveway and proceed to the end of the street. Week three: drive halfway to the restaurant. Week four: drive to the restaurant and park before doing a quick U-turn and heading home. Week five: kiss my ass.

Here it is a quarter of a year since my invitation, and BINO has taken nary a baby step. My 15-month-old great-niece, Emma, takes baby steps with more finesse. In fact, that sweet, beautiful child is a marathon runner compared to BINO.

Normally, I’d be pissed about BINO’s paralysis. But I realized that he has as much chance of taking a baby step as I do of outliving The Bitch. And every time those bronzed, big-boy shoes knock against the windshield, I will be reminded that BINO is still looking out for his little sister, urging her to temper her hopes with reality.