Family Loser

Every family needs a loser.  How else are we to gauge our progress in the world, if not by comparison to another product of our same bloodline in order to determine that I'm better than everyone else because my house has an attic, and no one else's does?
Rapunzel will be calling me any moment now saying, "You'd better not be referring to OUR family, young lady," which will balance out the fact that my children, the brats, address me as "old lady".
But it's true.  Why is it that families don't get along?  Because every member is secretly terrified, "What if the family loser is ME?" and they have to reveal to the rest of the clan the REAL loser before they themselves are cast in the role.
Seriously, you know there's a Renner out there going, "That Jeremy!  He needs to get a real job.  All he ever does is make a brizillion dollars pretending to be someone he's not!"
Face it.  At some point in your life, you're going to be the family loser, even if only for a moment.  My advice to you: embrace it!  Bask in it.  BE the loser you were born to be!  Revel in the glory of being the one everybody's talking about.  Just don't get too cocky, because you're not actually THAT special.  It happens to everyone.

Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show

Back when I was nice, there was a standing invitation (requirement) to attend the Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show every month.  Now, some families are close-knit, and others are just...anyway, Hunneypunkin and I attended the yearly event every month for a long time, thinking eventually we would find our place.
The trouble wasn't only that Drunckle picked arguments even more than his nose, or that Auntie Grandma baited him.  It wasn't just that Matriarch blamed the third-generations for the second-gens' bickering.  Or that Matriarch would cry and scold everyone for acting like this when today could well be Great-Great-Grampa's last meal.  I could have even handled the fourth- and fifth-gens biting my shoestrings and running with scissors and painting my diaper bag with gravy.
My sister-in-law Lovesme would try to engage me in pleasant conversation or at least telepathic empathy.  My sister-in-law Hatesme would try to occupy me with condescension or maybe critiquing my babies against hers.  Dromiquine was always there to spread or start gossip, and Cousin Antipath was always there to pants people, play with matches, and pass gas.  Hunneypunkin just stuck his head under somebody's car hood and checked their oil.  Eighty-six times.
The last time we attended the monthly Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show, it started as usual: avoiding the second-hand smoke, the hand-me-down hostility, and the direction of Great Aunt Chub who really needed a blankie when nursing her newest infant.  Matriarch complained about the food that people contributed and about the people who didn't contribute any.  The day ended as usual too, except this time it wasn't just my children huddled in the farthest corner from the fray, rocking themselves and sucking their thumbs, I was right there with them.
Finally I said to Hunneypunkin, "I'm not sure I can go anymore.  I just don't fit in, and there's never any chili.  But if we don't go, the clan is going to hate us."
Hunneypunkin said, "If you don't want to go, we won't go.  What difference would it make?  They already hate us."
I hadn't thought of that.  So we walked away like Jeremy Renner, and the only thing I miss is seeing Great-Great-Grampa's dementia disappear just long enough for him to grin at me and wink.