"Oh my God, her boob fell into the mashed potatoes again!" I was saddened to know that for the second year in a row, there was no possiblity that I would hear those words whispered in my ear by one of my few sensible relatives. The Boy and I have started a tradition of braving the Great Beyond that is the Deep South to spend Christmas with his family. As New Yorkers, places south of the Mason Dixon Line can seem scary, but we brave those accents and still waiving Confederate Flags - all to spend Christmas with the best future in-laws anyone could want. His parents are warm and fun and have a lovely home. We eat and play games and there is free booze and more importantly there is free booze and maybe eat again! It's a great time. There is only one problem, it's all too normal. I mean no one does tacky better than my family and every once in awhile you need a little tacky to keep things lively. Who would have ever thought that it would be impossible for me to get a little tacky in the South!
For starters, at The Boy's family Christmas, dinner will not be held at his grandparent's home. Due to this, there will be no one to play the role of my horny Grandfather, with duct tape on his glasses, coming into the kitchen and slapping my Grandmother on the ass. They have slept in seperate bedrooms for as long as I can remember and my Grandmother has not be interested in his old "funky ass," as she calls him, for a very long time. I guess you can't blame the man for copping a feel! He may be on Medicare, but he ain't dead! I will miss the oversized cackle that my Grandfather would let out every year when my Grandmother slaps his hand away in the kitchen and then becomes even more frustrated that he'd laugh, so she would finish the slap with her favorite "shut the shit up, I'm sick of you!" Oh, love and old age!
Of course, my Grandmother usually has no pants on by this time of night, which might explain why my Grandfather is in the mood for ass. A sweater, panties, and slippers are all you apparently need do the dishes with company present. It's not that she is pantless for all of Christmas, but after a full meal and a piece of Pecan Pie or two, there is no shame in an old woman unbuttoning her pants and letting it all hang out, or in the case - completely remove them and carry on with the usual days activities. Full removal of your pants in front of your family when you're an over 80-year old woman is, of course, the logical thing to do when you've eaten too much.
And whose left boob is going to fall in the mashed potatoes? Not The Boy's mother, she is far too refined. Oh, Aunt J - I miss her. She's a big woman and there is nothing wrong with bigness per se, but there is something wrong with having H sized jugs and not investing in a sturdy bra with straps made of iron. Nope, braless and with a shirt she's probably had on all week - comes to join the festivities. You see she lives with my Grandmother and Grandfather and is a miserable crotechety woman, most likely because she still lives with her parents and because her boobs consistently fall into plates and bowls filled with food. I'd be miserable too, especially if you took the time to change shirts each time it occurred. She conceded defeat a long time ago. And long before there was ever a show called Hoarders to tell me that people were really fucked up, I saw it first hand - as Aunt J's room is filled from floor to ceiling, with just the area of her bed remotely uncluttered. Of course, the avalanche of the cliffs of junk would slide down to the mattress below from time to time. The point is, she didn't have a long trek to the dinner table and, so, a shirt and no bra always seemed appropiate for her. The normal rising from your chair and reaching over the table for the mashed potato bowl always ineviatbly ended up in at least one boob taking a dip, in my Grandmother's finely whipped potatoes. If she doesn't make potatoes this year, I am sure they would dip in something else - the left or the right - or both - maybe in the Pecan pie, maybe in the gravy. To-may-toes, to-mah-toes - there were someplace they shouldn't be.
But I don't know who was worse, Aunt J or the rest of the family. We'd whisper amongst ourselves, "Oh God her boob is in the potatoes again." When the inevitable piece of roast beef fell from her mouth and onto her chest, only to rest peacefully like a a pretty necklace - everyone was silent. She ate, she laughed, we ate, we laughed, and everyone would carry on like nothing unusual had happened. We were all culpable. No one said, hey - you've got potatoes dripping off your boobies and a piece of roast beef just chilling out for no reason! Get a napkin! Nope, no one ever stepped up. With my Grandmother running around in her panties and my Grandfather having too much to drink - I suppose there was no need. Yes, yes...The Boy's family simply does not live up to this.
So as I prepare to buy my plane ticket to visit with The Boy's family in a few weeks, a part of me is sad. I had many a fun and tacky childhood Christmas. And while it has been a number of years prior to starting this tradition with The Boy, the likelihood of me ever going back to see the crazy is even less likely. The Christmas Tree being essentially "pissed on" as my Grandmother thought of it, only happened once and I doubt that incident would be replicated this year - although the plumbing issue I am sure remains unfixed, so anything is possible. But the food covered boobies and pantless Grandmother, that's forever! And to think, I only talked about one crazy aunt. Another fun aunt shot her husband (he lived, and deserved the bullet I hear), but still...makes for good entertainment at the holidays. Oh and, of course, my mother, my mother - but that's for another day.
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