I was re-listening to old You Look Nice Today podcasts and in one episode (Sacks-Minnelli Disease), the three hosts were talking about frelatives, a purposely-clunky portmanteau that indicates a friendship between related-by-marriage individuals. Like, you’re married to a man whose brother is married a woman — that woman is your frelative. The one you hide out with in the basement, drink beers, and talk about how weird the family you married into is.

Two frelative memories:

Way back in my mid-20s, my two roommates and I were dating (in retrospect) three swell guys. I remember walking into the kitchen one morning and the three boyfriends were sitting at the table together alone, looking extremely conspiratorial. I always wondered what private conversation I interrupted. I can only wonder — and cringe a little, given my mid-20s and and my, um, zest for life.

I have affectionate memories of my own frelatives from my last relationship, although I don’t see them much anymore. My boyfriend D came from a family that I shall describe as a piece of work. Wisely, D and his two siblings chose much less ka-razy partners. My frenemies and I (two ladies and a guy) would spend a lot of time together, hunkered down in the backyard, trying to puzzle out the Grand Guignol dramas that were always brewing intramurally.