Like all families, mine has certain Christmas traditions we must abide by. My dad writes silly notes from Santa on our gifts, there's an all-out holy war for control of the heat and - my favorite tradition of all - we haul down my mom's kitchen crucifix to replace it with a nutcracker cookie cutter. Tis the season.
My mom is easily the most religious person I know, so it's great fun that she allows this, with the technicality that "Jesus is in our hearts" or somesuch.
With the Lord safely removed from our kitchen, we took to looking up the schedule for Christmas mass. I heard a gasp from my mom, some conferring in the kitchen with my dad, then a guffaw from my brother.
That's right. On the holiest day of the Liturgical calendar, we overslept for Holy Spirit's 9 a.m. mass and thought we could catch St. Joe's 10:30. We could have too, except that their mass was at 10. I was putting on a final coat of mascara on as the (bad?) news came in. I sat down and ate another cinnamon roll.
To put this in perspective, my mom missing Christmas mass is like John Roberts oversleeping for the first day of Supreme Court.
"Nobody get out of fancy clothes! We're taking a family picture!" Dad worked through his disappointment through photography.
Then, still basking in our reprieve from the governor, we sat down to open our gifts.
Mom got a GPS system. Know where that could have lead us to? Church.
Kevin got a nice new coat. Know where that would've looked smashing? Church.
Dad got a bottle of Jameson's. Know where that would've been happily passed in a flask? Pew three at St. Joe's.
I'd mentioned in passing to my mom that I think I'd put on a few pounds when the weather got cold. What followed was either a show of support for my comfort, or a cruel, cruel joke...
I excitedly opened the box. Pants. Pink, fuzzy pj pants. I tugged on one leg and the material kept coming, like a handkerchief up a clown's sleeve.
I would have never have been able to fit into these even the week before I birthed octuplets. My sister and I each climbed into a leg and hopped down the hall.
With that merriment behind us, we all retired for some TV watching and computer time. My mom checked CNN headlines and announced Eartha Kitt had died. Then she announced Eartha was a whore.
We all let out a collective WHAAAAAAAA? as mom nonchalantly walked into the kitchen. I never did figure out what she was talking about. Was it this passage in the story?
Offstage, however, Kitt described herself as shy and almost reclusive.
"I'm an orphan. But the public has adopted me and that has been my only family," she told the Post online.
So what did we learn about my mom this year?: She hates the Baby Jesus, thinks I'm fat and has a personal vendetta with Eartha Kitt.
Merry Christmas to all.
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3 comments:
That. is. awesome.
My lord, that is hilarious. I especially like the image of your dad passing around a flask of Jameson's during church, if you had made it to church, of course.
Best Christmas post I've read this year. And I'm not just saying that because it's now 2009.
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