(You know, because there’s NO WAY anyone in my family could be this crazy.)
So, hypothetically speaking, I think I would be totally freaked out if I were to attend a family gathering at the holidays, only to hear some long, lost 27th cousin ask me, “So, now that you have connections south of the border, can you get me some cheap oxycontin?” (Insert obnoxious, drunken laugh here.)
There are absolutely so many levels of wrong here that it’s going to be very difficult to dissect the train of thought I had (or might have had, if I had a relative this in-freakin’-sane), but let me try.
First of all, I’m guessing that my south-of-the-border connection has something to do with our two youngest sons. I’ll also assume that any drunken attempts to speak Spanish were for their benefit, although now I’m fairly certain I’ll end up paying for counseling well into their adult years.
Ok, so, “south of the border.” Hmmm, well, yes, as a matter of fact, Guatemala does lie to the south of our fine land, but I’m really pretty certain that I don’t have any sort of connections, especially of the variety to which this relative was referring. I can only assume that he was possibly high on some sort of legal-ish cocktail when he asked this repulsive question.
Now, I’ll give him forgiveness points for the fact that, conservatively speaking, I think he’s probably nearing 85 years old. This would also very likely explain the elevated volume he found it necessary to use when asking this question—hopefully, he’ll get those hearing aid batteries checked soon.
I mean, seriously! What in the world are some people thinking?! That was only one of the asinine questions I endured while at the Christmas With Jim Beam party, as I’ve affectionately named it. (Have I mentioned previously my happiness at only seeing these relatives once a year?)
Before I repeat any of the others, let me just remind you that the boys have been with us for three years now. That’s three whole Christmases we have all been together at this gathering. Not three months, not three days…but THREE. YEARS. My point here is that I mistakenly assumed that the boys might be sort of “old hat” by now. You know, surely there are other more mind-blowing things than, say, a family member who is of a different nationality.
Anyway, here are a few of the doozies from this year:
“Are they brothers?”
Answer: They are now.
“Well, you know, what I mean is, are they related?”
Answer: They are now.
“Um, well, I reckon it’s a good thing y’all kept ‘em together then.”
Answer: Um, are you kidding me?
“Do they speak Spanish?”
Answer: Do you speak German?
“Do they know their mom?”
Answer: Yes, as a matter of fact, they say my name at least 50 times a day, usually when they want cookies or ice cream.
And then the south-of-the-border connection thing came up. At which point, Jason shot me a glare across the room that said something like, “I swear to God, if we don’t leave this den of ignorance right now, I will pack up the kids, and we will hitchhike.” Or something like that. Anyway, I got the picture that our hour with this branch of the family needed to quickly come to a close. I’m pretty sure that next year we’ll have a wonderful excuse for why we’ll be unable to attend. Maybe a Christmas conference south of the border?