I mentioned in my last blog, that as we get closer to Christmas, my family transforms into the Griswold family from “National Lampoons Christmas Vacation”. Now it is time to present more evidence to support my argument…. Exhibit B.
Christmas 2007: My mom has a mouth that can make a sailor blush. My Dad always says jokingly, “You better stop cursing! You never know when you might get struck by lightning”, implying that she is being bad. As children, my brother and I would always tattle on her when a curse word slipped out. This was always an ongoing joke until one day, my mom danced with the devil.
My mom loves the holidays. Although it can be stressful, she enjoys cooking and spending time with family. We were preparing for the holiday festivities and when I say “we” I really mean I was eating all the yummy treats that mom made while my Dad strung up the last holiday lights. My mom likes to cook Brandy and Cranberries, a dish that has been passed down for generations, but she couldn’t find the recipe. As she walked around the kitchen she says, “Where is that damn cranberry…urggggg.” I said, “What are you looking for?” She responded obviously irritated, “Forget it! I will just do it myself.” Mom proceeds to throw a bunch of cranberries and brandy in a dish and tosses it into the oven.
After 30 minutes go by, I am still very much involved in sampling treats…hey, I am dedicated to my work! My Dad walks through the kitchen and says, “What is that smell?” He was referring to the strong smell of vinegar wafting through the house. Well this comment started it all…. my mom frustrated by the realization that her cranberry dish was going to suck, gets mad. She shouts, “It’s the damn Cranberries! I couldn’t find the recipe” as she struggles to put on her oven mitts. My Dad rolls his eyes and looks at me. I am now focused on delicious fudge and couldn’t be bothered. My Dad walks outside to finish his Christmas illumination project to the front of our house.
I look over at my mom, who is now mumbling to herself, which is never a good sign. Then this wonderful concoction of verbiage begins to flow out of her mouth. Just like the father from the movie the “Christmas Story”, I hear such things as, “blasted poop…. freckin’ crap camel”. She grips the oven door and in mid-curse, flings it open. Without a second lost, a massive fireball comes shooting out of oven heading right in the direction of my mom’s potty mouth. I hear “Woooof” as the kitchen lights up with a beautiful orange hue.
Mom is screaming and shaking her head like bees are swarming around her. When she stops jumping up and down, she glances at me with bewildered eyes. I can see smoke still coming off of the top of her head. I yell, “Dad! Mom’s hair is on fire!” In a panic, mom does the most logical thing she could do. With the swift movement of a Navy Seal, she drops down to all fours, crawls to the dog’s water dish and begins to dip her head into the water. Dad comes running over to Mom and helps her stand.
Clearly shaken, I walk with her to the bathroom. It is only then, staring into the mirror, that we can see the effects of the devil’s fireball up close. Her bangs had been completely singed off, leaving crispy, curled strands of hair around her face. She leans in and touches her eyebrow, which turns to ash and disintegrates. She says, “I look like Michael Jackson.” Trying to stay positive, I say, “Look at it this way Mom, people pay a lot of money for these types of skin treatment.” She didn’t really see the humor in my revolution.
Now when my Mom uses profanity, my Dad reminds her of this day. He says, “Retribution was harsh and swift.” My mom’s eyebrows were never the same, almost like a reminder of what happens when you curse too much.