Just Drown me in the Gravy, Please

With the big Easter celebration looming tomorrow, I am bracing myself against my family's habit of bringing up old memories and beating them to death like a dusty rug. Family dinners consist of turkey, ham and apple pie served with a side of smart remarks.

Is it my fault I have Spock shaped ears? And when I say this, I am being polite. My husband tells everyone I am part elven. My ears are so pointy that when I brought my daughter to the plastic surgeon to have her ears pinned back (they stuck out so much we almost lost her a few times when the wind picked up) the doctor offered to correct mine. My brother still insists on calling me Spock. I use to try to discourage this behavior by kneeing him in the groin, but as he is now freakishly tall, I can't reach that high.

Another favorite dinner torture topic will surely be the fact that I am the only blond in a sea of brunettes. Of course, I now pay good money to look like Jessica and Brittany, but as a younger, prettier version of myself, I was the only toe head around. Why my siblings find this amusing is beyond me. No, I am not the mailman's kid. The fact that I am (sadly) a spitting image of my grandfather should be clue enough. However, no one can accuse my family of brilliancy.

So while my brother and sister are trying to annoy me about my appearance, my husband is bound to jump on this bandwagon. Because to him, there is no such thing as the sanctity of marriage. He'll remind everyone, while sporting a big shit-eating grin about my freaky toes. Not only are they long, but they are so hairy I have them waxed. His flexible wife has monkey feet. All I need is a tail to make his fantasy complete.

Then of course, my father will chime in. He will go into great detail the time when I was 16 and decided to get myself an older boyfriend. Don't panic, dear internet, he was only 19. He was beautiful. Daddy was worried about my virtue one night (because apparently sitting on the front steps in front of a very large window with your parents watching every move you make will lead to amorous rounds of sex.) Dad decided to chase my beautiful beau off (literally) by calling him names and threatening to kill him. All while chasing him down the block wearing nothing but his tighty-whiteys. My dad, not my boyfriend. It was a proud moment. And I never heard from that beautiful chicken shit again.

Somewhere between pass the peas and the inevitable fight over the last bun, my mother will have to bring up the fact that I looked like the elephant girl for over a month when I walked behind a horse and startled it. I don't remember anything, but my mother likes to drag out pictures of my bruised and broken face to amuse the company.

My kids, being the traitors they are, will inevitably contribute their two cents. Nothing like sporting with Mommy's pride. They will likely bring up the fact that their mother has a name that should never be spoken. Not just a bad choice for a girl, but a hideous moniker that need never be uttered. This name is so bad that when I was 18 I tried to have it changed. The family uproar was so great I backed down, only after extracting promises from every family member never to speak this name again. My children however, like to shout it from the roof tops. I should have never given birth.

The entire time I am the family's whipping post, I will be calling them names in Japanese. And I know more than my share of wicked ones. Thank you Akiko. All the while, I will be slinging back the red wine. Because isn't that how everyone survives family celebrations?

My thanks to Her Bad Mother for tagging me to dig in to the dark recesses of my past and tell the blogosphere about six wildly uninteresting facts about myself. And yes, I do realize I posted seven. In for a penny, in for a pound. I'm off to brush up on my Japanese.