Okay, that is a lie. No one in our family lives in Montana, and I am sure it is a lovely state. But if we had an uncle in Hawaii, it would pretty much be a given that he would be rich.Who wouldn’t want a rich uncle in Hawaii so you could go visit him and stay with him in his palatial oceanfront estate?
Damn my geographically-challenged boring DNA chain. No Hawaii. No ukuleles.Honestly, he does not have to play ukulele, but as a general Hawaii stereotype, it seems like all the cool Hawaiians do. Maybe the ukuleles are presented to the children in the preschool classes, or heck, maybe they are right there in the delivery room when baby makes his first appearance. They spend their lives around ukuleles and pick it up by osmosis.
My sons have a lovely uncle that they call “Uncle Ra-Ra.” It is a variation of his real name, because Tall could not pronounce it when he was two and learning to talk. The Ra-Ra stuck, and we all still call him that. I somehow feel I am at a pep rally for a football game whenever I say his name—Ra-ra! Shish boom ba! Ra-ra! Gooooooo, team!I keep hinting to Ra-Ra that he should A. Move to Hawaii, and B. Get rich, and don’t forget C. Learn to play the ukulele. He staunchly refuses to do any of those, instead preferring to live his normal life with zero consideration for my free vacation plans. He makes a radical suggestion:
“MOV, why don’t you move to Hawaii? Then you can be the crazy sister-in-law who moved to Hawaii.”Well, at least he got the crazy right.