Everyone thinks they have the worst relatives, especially around the holidays, but let me impart upon you a bit of my relations. If you think your uncle that partakes of too much eggnog is bad, just wait till you meet my outrageous, fat Aunt Carol.
Aunt Carol took all the money my great-uncle saved by way of busting his butt throughout his life, and spent it on huge, gaudy rings that blinded the eye when in the sun, to wear on her huge, sausage-like fingers. She wore matching earrings, always of the same tacky gold and fake jewels, so heavy her earlobes seemed to be stretching to kiss her sun-spotted shoulders. They really didn’t have far to stretch because she had a short, fat, roll of a neck.
Her clothes were always glitzy, sometimes scattered with gold confetti or sequins. They screamed in agony as they were stretched to their very limits over her huge, distended belly and elephant-like calves. Her shoes – always flats , – were as gaudy as the rest of her wardrobe with sequins, beads, and showers of glitter that made them look like a child’s art project.
Her visits always fell on the holidays, mostly Christmas or Thanksgiving. Basically any holiday where food was a large part of the celebration, she could be seen circling around the kitchen like a shark ready to feed. She was never far from the table, or from food for that matter, which contributed to her incredible size.
She would stay up all night and eat, then sleep away most of the day. When she would show her face in the living room, she would still be in her nightgown, a rather sheer one at that for a woman of her size. On a holiday where people are constantly coming to the house, there she’d be, a fat, half-nude couch ornament with huge, distended breasts resting – as though exhausted by their own weight – upon her knees. It drove my grandmother insane!
You were in for quite a treat when she found out you were going shopping, for she loved to shop. It was what she did best. She would spend hours selectively picking out junk that she would never in a million years use, nor presents that anyone would in a million years want, just to get to the checkout and decide she really didn’t need any of it. And she wouldn’t do this discretely either. Oh, no. The whole store knew what she thought was trash – like she had taste – and what she thought was nice, which was actually trashier than what she thought was trash.
If she found out you were going somewhere to eat, no matter if she had just eaten a whole calf just minutes before, she just had to come with you. Sometimes we’d go to the Chinese restaurant in town. It had a buffet and the looks upon those poor, panic-stricken owners! It made you feel pity. They had cause for dread, of course, for she was very likely to consume their entire stock. She would spend so much time eating, tasting every morsel, basking in every flavor of every item, that we would eventually leave her there. We’d return later, of course, but it was truly torturous to watch her consumption. When she ate, it was as if time itself stopped, pulled up a chair and began to stare with everyone else in horrid fascination.
You cannot imagine the relief we felt when we learned she was leaving. Even then, she made it hell. She would say her good-byes only to sit down and take another bite of cake, or she would suddenly realize she’d packed some road-time snack in an inaccessible place and force Uncle Clifford to unpack everything and do it over again, leaving her must-haves within arm’s reach.
It would take at least an hour from the time she said she was leaving to the time she actually got in the car. She would waddle to her vehicle on legs with no ankles, slowly lower her body, her arms quivering, using what I like to call the “oh, shit!” bar to maneuver herself in. When she had finally put all her weight on the car, she exhaled her breath and the car let out a long, loud groan, and then was silent.
The whole family would gather around, waving and offering sincere smiles, as we were ecstatic to see her go. Once she was out of sight, we’d all exhale that breath we’d been holding since the moment we heard she was coming. Inside, we were all doing a little dance of triumph that now, maybe, we’d get a piece of grandma’s delicious pecan pie – if any was left.
So next time your grandpa says something inappropriate around your ethnic boyfriend, or your mother ends up stabbing your father with a fork during the football game, remember, there are others out there suffering with you.
You are not alone in your humiliation.