How I Spent My Christmas Vacation
Come
Christmas Eve, I knew things weren’t going to end well when my mother
called me up starting the conversation with “Your father and I were
having a debate. Which one of us is more affectionate?” After
explaining that neither of them were exactly exemplars of affection,
the conversation ended with her saying “Okay we’ll do better. It’s
never too late to turn over a new leaf.”
A lone wolf howled in
the distance. The bone scraping creak of a basement door opening. The
rustle of dead leaves across a grave site. The tendrils of fear wrapped
themselves around the base of my spine and sent a chill through my
soul. That was what the idea of hearing my parents promising to be
affection reminded me of.
Now, it’s not Christmas in the
Broaddus household until 1) we hear “Silent Night” by the Temptations
and 2) we’ve taken a picture of at least one of the boys crying on
Santa’s (my brother-in-law) lap. This year Santa surrounded himself
with some ghetto elves (let’s face it, how often do you get to hear
“‘Sup Santa. Let’s do this.”).
Christmas morning was spent at my
parents’ house. Now, we had all of two white people over in addition to
the rest of the usual suspects, both family and both with full
credentialed ghetto passes: my wife and my best friend.
My mother decided to relate to them by making all of us suffer through
Christmas music on the country station. Because, you know, she’s trying
to be affectionate.
I also learned several important lessons during the course of the all day (and all night) festivities:
-the phrase “I’m gonna beat your little ass” is non-stop funny from the mouth of a three-year old
-if you’re going to have to hire a divorce lawyer, pass on any named “Crapo”
-if
you are only charged only $75 for the cost of your divorce proceedings
(not $75 per hour, but $75 en toto) expect the court to bend you over
into its favorite position
-never take the last of a man’s Tide
-a
guy who shows up with a guitar will feel obligated to play it (and any
listener of the Bob and Tom Show knows what that means)
My wife is handling this year’s Kwanzaa report,
for those interested. Me? Well, I’m off to pick up the pizzas we
ordered from Papa Johns (since apparently they won’t deliver to my
neighborhood after dark).
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Comment on this bit of
rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading
it from) but if you want to guarantee me seeing it, do so at my message board.
