Before I turn them into sci-fi, let me say, my mother loved the holidays. She was Mrs. Claus, with a spaghetti strainer in one hand, and a cocktail shaker in the other.
We did have a Norman Rockwell type Christmas, if Norman had a stroke that is.
One was when my father’s Pall Mall, accidentally set the tree on fire, putting it out with a 6 pack of Bud. Even though the tree was saved, my mother still wasn’t too thrilled since, one of her Santa ornaments was now in blackface.
Then there was the time, Dad, thinking he was doing something heroic, brought home an artificial one from Caldors, my mother threw on the front lawn.
“ARE YOU CRAZY BRINGING THAT PIECE’A CRAP IN THIS HOUSE?”
Well, let’s just say, he was crazy after that.
Mustn’t forget the time Fluffy the cat was missing. We found her at the bottom of the box my mother’s new Electrolux came in, passed out, like she had had too much to drink…which could very well have been the case, since there were many opportunities, and Fluff, wasn’t my mother’s cat for nothing.
The first and last boy I ever brought home, had a ringside seat to my parents fighting across the dinner table. It was, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, with an open bar. As I recall, the roast ended up on the floor, my grandfather wiping it off with a dishtowel before placing it back on its platter.
Back then we had a stereo the size of Michigan my mother played her Mitch Miller Sing-Along Holiday album on…over and over and over again.
One year, it went missing…uh-oh…Ma, put that knife down.
We all knew where Mitch was…in the trunk of my father’s Chevy Impala, but moms, I mean, mums was the word since, if those fucking sleigh bells went a ringling, ting-ting-tingling one more time, straight jackets, instead of blazers, would have been in order.
I’ll end with the time my mother made me a centerfold at 3, insisting I pose, naked, in front of the tree, with a little hankie in front of my private parts that were barely out of the box, as it were.
But modesty, bless her little butt, still reported for duty.
Even my father paled when asked to take the famous photo.
I was in tears. “NO NO, MOMMY, NOT IN FRONT’A DADDY.”
We then went to the kitchen table over hot chocolate, to negotiate. If I said yes to this humiliating experience, I could wear my new Dr. Denton pajamas with the dropped seat before Christmas.
Hmm, even then I was a fashionista, loving them since, you could pee, without taking off your pants.
They were ghetto pants, before ghetto pants.
I was cute at 3, not yet putting on the 40 pounds that would make me resemble a cookie jar, and that famous picture, which could have gotten my parents 5 to 10, was lost long ago.
It was always a worry, if I ever became famous, it would end up on Hard Copy.
Merry Christmas everyone.