From as far back as can be traced in the shiftless wreckage that is my ancestry, my kin have all been scrappers, grifters, rogues, and thieves. We tend to sport BILLY CLUBS or even an ACE OF CLUBS — not motherloving GOLF CLUBS at COUNTRY CLUBS. A 5 iron is for beating a potential mark or adversary senseless in a back alley in Chinatown, for chrissake — not for beating the plaid pastel pants off him on the 18th hole at Pebble Beach.

If truth be told, my people aren’t really qualified to even mix the cocktails or keep the greens at places that posh. If they pass the initial criminal background check (which, believe you me, is highly improbable) they’d most likely be hired to unload and stow the endless cases of Bombay gin, give clandestine handjobs to rich, drunken putters in the backroom of the pro-shop, or scrub the ruddy shitters in the caddyshack.

And yet, out of my nearly dozen siblings, there is one who runs with a fancier, more respectable crowd than the rest of us scoundrels and scalliwags.

Who is actually a card-carrying, member-in-good-standing of The Junior League.

Who has NEVER, EVER been incarcerated.

Who buys the majority of her “resort wear” wardrobe at Chico’s.

Who, even if threatened at gunpoint, would never reveal to a single soul in the city from which we hail, her maiden name nor her irrevocable genetic membership in a clan as wildly notorious as our own. The last time she did so, at an upscale salon, she ended up with a half-finished head full of foil and highlights, as her traumatized, hysterical hairdresser refused to touch her or even look at her after discovering that it was yet another sibling of ours who had burglarized this woman’s home two years earlier and oh, so thoughtfully relieved her of the burden of being the trusted family caretaker of her great-grandmother’s heirloom 3-carat diamond and platinum Art Deco engagement ring, as well as her television, stereo, VCR, and extensive collection of Hummel figurines.

Who, quite regularly and with a completely straight face, refers to the area in her home where her children watch Wimbledon matches and episodes of “Glee”, as “The Media Room.”

Who vigilantly keeps those same glorious children safely segregated from their legions of grubby cousins, lest they be sullied by the chaos and mischief that tends to swirl about that Two-Headed Monster of grinding poverty: Want&Need.

Who also, ironically, takes in said nieces and nephews for weeks, months, sometimes even years at a time, and feeds, clothes, and loves them when their own parents are strung out, locked up, exiled, or otherwise unable to shepherd their own larvae.

Who has, also with a completely straight face, referred to a bottle of wine as being, “Playful and proud…yet never pretentious.”

Who wears a motherfucking visor and tennis skirt while buying smoked gouda and butter lettuce at Whole Foods.

Who has several gorgeous glamour-shot portraits of herself framed and hanging hither and yon in her beautiful, monolithic home — portraits at which her brilliant, hilarious, irreverent, 23 year old son rolls his eyes and smirks and then casually flips off as he strolls by, revealing a delightful, genetic…grubbiness…that cannot be denied nor extinguished, no matter how many years of being lovingly raised like a prize veal.

Her name is Mo — and I love her with ALL my trashy, scandalous heart.

She is my sister.

Mo, in the middle…being posh.