I often wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend, because most days I think I am fairly fabulous. Holiday time with my family makes me think all potential suitors must have seen video footage of the dysfunction, and this is the reason they all suddenly can’t return text message, phone calls, or emails. I sat in the chair today, flipping through the waste of paper that is Black Friday circulars, imagining what it would be like if I brought a man to a holiday dinner, and what he would witness.
The meal began with us attempting to “give thanks”, everyone going around the table and saying a couple of things they are thankful for. I tried to start this tradition a few years ago, because we really don’t have any traditions in our family, unless you call eating great food and getting slightly sloppy on cocktails a tradition. The “thanksgiving” started out well, the junior niece saying “family and food”, and then my son, the comedic orator began. . . . .”Pants, I am thankful for pants, shouldn’t we all be thankful for pants?” More than one person is an audience to him, so my brother shut him down; tradition denied!
The meal continued, my son continued talking on numerous subjects–weed being one of them, of which he knows absolutely nothing about, but thinks it’s quite funny to talk like a stoner. I tell him for the umpteenth time to stop talking about something he knows nothing about. Senior niece says, “My dad does, because my mom told me they did it together!” I in turn have to cover my mouth with my hand to shield my laughter and not spit my “fauxtatoes” all over. Meanwhile, junior niece is interjecting throughout all the chaotic conversation, “PIE”, but she’s saying it more like a southern belle, so it’s coming out “pah”. I can’t help if I make the most kick ass apple “pah” for miles around and this is all she’s worrying about consuming.
As dinner comes to a close, my brother informs our mother that she needs to de-fur his back. Yes, I just said de-fur. My brother takes after my dad in that his head might lack for hair, but his back doesn’t. However, he can’t reach to shave it, or use the damn depilatory, so he must enlist help. (Every year when I blow out my birthday candles, I secretly wish for the perfect woman to come along for my brother to help him with his back grooming.) So, before “pah”, my mother applies the stinky hair remover cream to my brother’s back. Senior niece, junior niece, and my son are all there to watch. They don’t want to miss a minute of it. My brother informs my son he will probably inherit the back hair, and my son vehemently denies the possibility, but decides it’s a good time to inform everyone that he now has pubes, and might even know the possible number of how many pubes. Senior niece seems to think everyone has pubes “down there” and under your arm pits too. Grandma goes on to inform her that, the reason they’re called “pubes”, is because it’s pubic hair, and for christ’s sake, doesn’t she know where the pubic region is??
Meanwhile, I am sitting in the other room, trying to choke down my faux pumpkin pie, that I have drowned in half a can of whipped cream because it tastes so shitty, knowing that I love the shit out of these people, and they make me laugh, sometimes to the point I almost piss myself. Also knowing, that if some guy I bring home to this doesn’t think this shit is just as funny as I do, that we probably don’t stand a chance, and he might as well take his fucking turkey to go.