My most recent visit home to the States just so happened to coincide with the 4thof July holiday and an extended family picnic hosted by my brother. Having spent nearly four decades assessing my abilities, he wisely told me not to cook anything. Instead he asked me to be in charge of fun, which was a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve always been leading the charge when it comes fun. The idea that he suddenly needs to make it a formal position runs counter to the premise.
“My brother told me to focus on fun,” I said to Johann with a shrug. “Like I need to hear that. Oh well, at least my talents are being recognized.”
“You’re fun,” Johann agreed. “What are you going to do?”
“Well I’m going to get t-shirts made,” I answered. “First things first.”
He raised his eyebrows. “T-shirts?” he asked. “For who? What are they going to say? Fun Club?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fun Club. Don’t be ridiculous,” I snarked. “They’re going to say FAUNTIE.”
“What’s a fauntie?” he asked.
“It’s a combination of fun and auntie,” I explained. “A Fauntie. I’m going to have them made for some of my cousins too. Just the fun ones.”
“Is fauntie a real word?” Johann asked.
“No, fauntie’s not a real word,” I snapped. “It’s not a word at all. It’s a lifestyle.”
Johann was not the only person having trouble getting his head around Fauntie. All day long, people kept asking me about my shirt. Even after I explained the concept, they proceeded to ask follow up with questions about the whereabouts of toilet paper or the availability of diet soda.
“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling up my dinosaur face mask when someone asked where they could find a serving spoon. “That’s not really my wheelhouse.”
From my point of view, the only thing that really falls under the Fauntie purview is fun. And the interesting thing about fun is that if you have to ask questions about how to have it or where to find it, you’re probably not doing it right. Fauntie is not something you can buy or borrow. You won’t find it in a drawer or on a shelf. It won’t spoil or melt and it doesn’t need to be served warm. You either have it or you don’t. True Fauntie comes from within.
To add insult to injury, several of the people who couldn’t fully grasp the concept of Fauntie were quick to admit that they had heard of its counterpart, the Funcle. One of my friends even said that her husband had been gifted both a Funcle t-shirt and a mug, neither of which had to be custom ordered from an Etsy shop based in Thailand.
I rolled my eyes. “A Funcle mug? That’s a little off brand, isn’t it?” I said. “How fun can you be if you’re settling down with hot cup of tea? Get that guy a beer koozie.”
But that sort of thinking is limiting, I’ll admit. And not particularly fauntie of me either. Funcles, like Faunties, come in many forms.
Fauntie, by the way, is a net positive term. There are no disqualifiers for being one—and even tea drinkers can claim the title. Just because I coined the word doesn’t mean that I alone set the standards. I don’t cook or bake, but that doesn’t mean other Faunties can’t. It’s just not the only thing we bring to the table. Speaking of tables, we also may not bother setting one or help clean it up. We will, however, make sure there are 24 boxes of sparklers, a six-pack and several choking hazards in the middle of it. With Faunties and Funcles, it’s safety second.
True to form, the other Faunties and I were busy having a great time at my brother’s picnic, particularly with those guests under the age of five. This seemed to inspire a fair amount of jealousy with some of the other attendees.
“FAUNTIES,” my brother shouted across the lawn the second he had finished putting away the leftovers. “WHAT’S THE STATUS OF THE PINATA?”
The Faunties and I exchanged a look and then went back to our business of throwing children who did not belong to us onto a splash pad.
“We’re busy,” I called, as I heaved his son onto my shoulder.
My brother stormed across the lawn. “It’s about to rain,” he snapped. “No. Actually. There’s a tornado warning.” He pulled out his phone to read me a text message from the National Weather Service. “We need to get this show on the road,” he concluded.
At this point, his other child, sopping wet and wearing a pair of star-shaped plastic sunglasses, blew a plastic whistle in our direction. “TOOT,” he added as he sunk into mud puddle created by the aforementioned splash pad. I gave my brother a satisfied smirk.
“Toot,” I repeated, shooing him back onto the porch.
“Do your job!” my brother replied. “Get the piñata up!”
I held up both my hands. “Tom,” I protested. “You’re being so not fauntie right now.”
For what it’s worth, 4thof July ended up being the perfect occasion to introduce my Fauntie agenda. It’s Independence Day, after all. And if Faunties are one thing, we’re independent. We’re free and brave, like any good American ought to be. Hope you all had a happy 4th… it was good to be back.
I’m not an auntie but if I were, I’d be a Fauntie fo sho!
I have no doubt!!