Let Me Explain

I feel like I need to come with some sort of explanation. Like before people meet me, someone should say, "before you meet Morgan, let me explain". Why? you ask (We didn't ask, we know why), well I am sort of normal, I mean there is nothing spectacularly abnormal about me. It's just that I am normal- amplified, normal- on steroids, normal-in a not normal sort of way, and I feel like I should explain. 
The bottom line is, I am a product of my strange, fabulous, loud, Italian family.  The matriarc of the family is my Clorris Leachman- like Grandmother Vee Vee.  Her real name is Velia and according to her, the boys in school used to sing to her "Velia, I wanna feel ya".  She is shockingly uncensored, a little more than slightly senile and an 86 (although she says 80) year old kleptomaniac .  She deserves way more than a brief insert in a modest blog, but 9 o 'clock, I am tired, on my third glass of wine and I require more of an explanation than one crazy grandma, so I will move on.
My father, Velias only son, is way more like his mother than he will ever admit.  He is equally as loud and uncensored but believes the fact that he plays golf as often as the average American spends time in a cubilcle that he is classier than she.  He is not, but don't tell him that.  If you do, he will swear at you, tell you are wrong, make you cry and then ten minutes later sincerely ask you why you are crying and why your wine glass is empty.
My father's wife- who looks more like my sister than the title she holds and hates of Stepmother, is a saint for willingly marrying into the crazy family that I was so lucky to be born into.  She has been insulted endlessly by my unfiltered grandmother for being too thin, her teeth being too perfect and her ironing skills to be less than mediocre.  She has been a part of the family for over twenty years, miraculousy since this was a chosen path for her and not one of blood line like the sad rest of us. At least once a week she loses her cool and calls my father a Dick Head- a name that he has grown quite comfortable with.
I have an older sister that makes a living gallivanting with her British husband all over the world.  She is the rich one that lives in France and vacations in Thailand while I live in Forestdale and vacation in Upstate New York.  She is the quieter, less bold one until she has a bottle of red wine in her at which point my petite, nearly British sister turns into a Truck Driver from the dirty south and puts my fathers foul mouth to shame.  She is the oldest and selfishly used up the organizational skills and work ethic genes, leaving the rest of us messy and lazy.
My little sis we will call Beatrice (a name she gave herself for some god awful reason) is the hippy of the family.  She currently lives in Chicago where she works at a coffee shop where unemployed people that smell like patchouli spend their last pennies on gourmet coffee and faux intelligent conversations.  She has dropped out of a few colleges in an effort to find herself.  One place we found her was in an issue of High Times- holding a sign at a marijuana legalization rally that read: Stop Arresting my friends.  Her father is black, (Im confused) which gave her the most beautiful complexion and the craziest hair which I am sure attributes to her off the wall ways.
My little brother- the baby of the family is 6ft 1 and has football player shoulders.  He could palm the heads of all of his sisters, I am sure.  He is soon to be twenty and living the college life in Boston.  He frequents the gym more often than I visit the liquor store and no one loves him as much as he loves himself.  He has a huge heart which is easily broken and due to the fact that he was raised in a house of all women- we are all convinced that he will one day make the best husband to any girl.  The few girls that he has hung around look like future super models and truth be told my lil bro looks quite like a male model himself...just don't tell him that.
My mother, the woman who gave birth to the above mentioned clan passed away four years ago.  She was the warmest woman in the world, and yet she had a wild side as well.  She never took life too seriously and her kids were the world to her.  She too was a bit crazy like the rest of the fam.  She never got our names straight, so early on she resorted to calling us all Charlie- even the dogs.  She was constantly trying to tell us that she was cutting back on "the wine" but that is hard to take seriously from someone with a worse red wine mouth than Ronald McDonald. 
I will not get into the even more extended family at this point.  I haven't the time and I feel that you might need a few moments (try years) to process the info presented in this post.  I hope that you have a clearer understanding of why I am the Slightly Irrational woman that I am.  Basically, I am pushing the blame.  It is not my fault, I am a product of sheer insanity.