Misadventures and Ms. Demeanor

I was usually very rational, very sane. Growing up with a crazy aunt, I hadn't had much choice. When my Halloween costume in Kindergarten was a perfect replica of a stapler and not a fairy princess, my five-year-old brain had known something was fishy. When I found two hard boiled eggs floating in water dyed yellow in a second-hand pickle jar for lunch in fourth grade, it had been time to make my own lunch. Then there was the middle school dance, when she'd gone not just as chaperone but as the principal's date, and they were caught together in a very compromising position in the janitor's closet. Needless to say, the man had relocated to Florida, and I knew I needed to get out of town. I couldn't compete with Aunt Velma.
To say that my aunt was famous in town—perhaps infamous was a better word—was an understatement. Being known as 'Velma Dinkweiler's niece', not Daphne Lane, spoke volumes about our two personalities. That was why one day in July, I lost it. Completely and totally lost it. Maybe the fruit didn't fall as far from the tree as people had thought. Maybe my parents left me on Aunt Velma's doorstep because they knew I would turn out as crazy as she was. Maybe I was just a late bloomer and had to grow into my craziness. Whatever the reason, looking back, crazy might not be so bad after all.