Although a non-Catholic, it’s time for my full confession. We have dysfunction in our family. To be honest, I’m a bit reluctant to come clean about it. But, as is said about most everything except politics – “Honesty is the best policy.” Some names are changed to protect the guilty.

First, there is the family hoarder. Truth is, most of us have a saving tendency. We collect rubber bands, paper clips, coffee mugs, baseball caps, clothes that haven’t fit since the turn of the century — but we expect to wear them again someday – and more. If we don’t keep these things, odds are we’ll need one of them within a week after giving it the heave-ho. As a partially-suppressed hoarding gene owner myself, I can only claim amateur status. As evidence, there are no less than a dozen cans of spray paint in the garage that have just enough left-over liquid inside to douse a bottle cap. You never know when that might come in handy.

We do have a professional hoarder in the family, however. This person is unable to depart a cafe before first gathering every available packet of Sweet and Low, sugar, salt, pepper and individual coffee creamer cups — allegedly to be repurposed as Christmas tree ornaments at a later date. Likewise, vessels used to transport home the last three bites of potato salad are eventually washed, dried and stacked on the kitchen counter to heights just shy of the ozone layer. Grocery bags accumulated since the Eisenhower administration are crammed into a hall closet.

Then there’s the relative who is an expert on everything, compelled to spew useless, questionable information as he flaps his tongue like a flag in a hurricane. “No, that’s not right. Washington crossed the Mouse River, not the Delaware,” he might offer. Or, “Patrick Henry once said, ‘Give me potatoes or give me death.'” Wine consumption further fuels his endless eloquence.

Another relation insisted on riding along with me to the hardware store, where I hoped to sort out some household snafus. When we arrived I was told, “I’ll wait in the car.” Following an explanation it might take a while inside, I left the car and AC running to prevent its conversion into an oven from the blazing sun. Before long, random dashboard buttons were being mashed — one of which turned the engine off but left the seat warmer (another button pushed) working well. As the sun did its magic, the car’s interior temperature escalated while my in-law’s fanny sizzled on the seat.

Unfamiliar with the vehicle’s door or window mechanisms, the roasting relative clawed at the window and hollered “Let me out!” A passing pedestrian opened the door and escorted Half-Baked into the store. Holy hell began to rain down.

“Why did you lock me in the car with the engine off? I was cooked like a Thanksgiving turkey!” If folks who stood gawking could have voted, I’d be a convicted felon. Employees and customers were frozen in amazement over the jaw-dropping drama. “I need some water!” the underdone poultry crowed. Two employees sprinted to the back room to return with four bottles. After chugging one, another announcement came like bellowed through a bullhorn. “I need to use the bathroom!” Again, an employee rushed to escort my medium-rare relative to the water closet. Three minutes later, another blood curdling scream came from the bathroom. “There’s no toilet paper in here!”

As a seven-year-old, I sensed an uncle of mine was a half-bubble off center. He had mastered chain-smoking cigarettes, but had yet to grasp the righty-tighty, lefty-loosy laws of screwdriver operation. When it comes to dysfunction, it appears my family has its share. With luck, maybe nieces and nephews won’t rummage through the garage some day and diagnose me saying, “Why is he saving all these empty cans of spray paint? I think Uncle Denny is losing it.”