Family reunions are a study in controlled chaos. There’s the aunt who pinches your cheek too hard, the uncle who falls asleep in the potato salad, and the pack of second cousins who treat the backyard like a medieval battlefield. But in every family ecosystem, there is an outlier. For me, that outlier is a walking, talking, pinstriped paradox.
His name is Vincent—though he insists you call him “Vinnie from the Box,” a nickname that makes zero sense to anyone outside his own head. And if you ask me to describe him in a single sentence, it comes out clunky, specific, and infuriatingly accurate: My only bitchy cousin is a Yankeetype guy the exclusive.
Let me unpack that linguistic grenade for you.
The Yankee-Type cousin does not "hang out." He networks. He does not "eat lunch." He refuels.
Living the exclusive lifestyle means treating every second as a commodity. I asked him once what he does on the weekends to relax. He handed me a day planner. my only bitchy cousin is a yankeetype guy the exclusive
"Do you ever just... sleep in?" I asked. He looked at me, horrified. "Sleep is a debt that compounds, cousin. I pay mine in increments of high-intensity interval training."
Here is the secret about the Yankee-Type cousin. For all the exclusivity, the unpronounceable Italian suits, and the reluctance to eat carbohydrates, he is the most reliable guy in the family.
When my car broke down at 2 AM on a Tuesday, Sterling didn't ask questions. He didn't send a tow truck; he showed up in a Range Rover that smelled like cedar and success, fixed the engine with a tool from his bespoke leather kit, and handed me a protein bar.
"You're family," he said, adjusting his sunglasses in the dark. "Family is the only club you can't buy your way into." Family reunions are a study in controlled chaos
First, acknowledge the “only.” In a sprawling Italian-Irish diaspora of forty-seven cousins, Vinnie stands alone in his specific brand of bitchiness. Most of my cousins are loud, generous, and emotionally simple. They hug first and ask questions never. They lend you twenty bucks even if they know you won’t pay it back. They cry at weddings, fight at funerals, and grill burgers with the fervor of Michelin chefs.
Vinnie does none of this.
Vinnie critiques the burgers. He asks why you didn’t use kosher salt. He stands apart from the hugging circle, arms crossed, wearing a navy blue Yankees hoodie even in July. His bitchiness isn’t mean-spirited—it’s editorial. He operates like a food critic who got lost on the way to a restaurant and ended up at a baptizing.
When my sister announced her engagement, the family erupted in tears. Vinnie said, “The ring’s clarity is a four, max. But the setting is… fine.” Then he walked away to adjust the thermostat. "Do you ever just
That is bitchy. Not evil. Not cruel. Just perpetually, unapologetically extra.
Every family has its black sheep. Ours has a black wolf in a cashmere sweater. His name is Prescott, and for the thirty-two years of my life, I have described him using a sentence that never fails to confuse people: My only bitchy cousin is a Yankee-type guy the exclusive.
Let me unpack that. “Bitchy” suggests a certain effete, gossipy quality. “Yankee-type guy” evokes a New Englander who says “wicked” and knows his way around a raw oyster. And “the exclusive” implies he is a limited edition—one of a kind, not for mass consumption. Put it together, and you have a portrait of the most infuriating, fascinating, and unexpectedly loyal relative a person could ask for.