Things Mother Taught Me
By Kit-Bacon Gressitt
When two people love each other very much, the father plants a seed inside the mother, where a baby grows. Then all hell breaks loose and the kid perfects a drop-dead look that could kill a rhino. And when the mother and father are too old to reach around, the kid wipes their tushies for them.
Tattling is verboten. But you may certainly bring that delightful doll of yours, Mrs. Peabody, to tea, so she can share her tale of woe about the really mean thing her child did that would be cause for a spanking, if tattling were allowed.
If it’s likely to get a laugh, say it. Just be prepared for the consequences. They are inevitable.
On the other hand, if you can’t say anything nice to someone, say nothing at all. Save the caustic comments for when the target isn’t present. Then the rest of us can enjoy them.
Spread the peanut butter on both sides of the bread. This keeps the jelly from bleeding through.
Speaking of which, toss a twelve-year-old into the bathroom with a box of tampons and close the door. She’ll figure it out. She’s smart.
Love the unlovely. But whatever you do, don’t stare at the mole.
Family members dine together. Even when some family members hope others choke, and one or another occasionally stomps off in a huff mid-meal. They all come back for more. Of everything.
Serve from the left; clear from the right; don’t throw out the untouched Napoleon. Don’t admit that you didn’t throw it out.
A sociable whiskey sour stokes the conversation. Too many, kills it. The ability to discern between the two is lost at the bottom of the whiskey sour glass.
Horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow. Ladies once glowed into cotton-covered rubber dress shields that attached to brassieres. That was before women started baring their upper arms in public. Now dress shields are all the rage again. Because some people still believe horses sweat, gentlemen perspire, and ladies glow.
Tithe. It’s a loving thing to do. Particularly if your gift goes to Planned Parenthood. Just don’t bring it up at family reunions.
Food is comfort. Spoon bread and creamed chipped beef, caviar and cream cheese, and Charles Potato Chips are known to heal broken hearts, disconsolate souls, and evacuated wombs.
Never marry an engineer. They’re a humorless lot, too anal-retentive. Father excepted, of course. He can dance.
By the way, dance. Especially when it hurts. Don’t sit down. Keep dancing.
There will be separate punch bowls at mixed weddings. This does not mean the Baptists don’t visit the Methodist punch.
Stop staring at that mole.
Also note that Southern Baptists are similar to Catholics: Forgiveness is contingent on the confession of sins. Groveling is also required. Be grateful the Bacons are Methodists.
Always write a thank you note. Failure to do so bespeaks of more than mere thoughtlessness. It calls the family pedigree into question. This is unforgivable.
FHB, family hold back, is in order when guests bring unexpected companions. This is no problem if the offering is terrapin—the children won’t eat pets. When it’s Crab Imperial, engage the guests during cocktail hour in discussion of the diet of the bottom-feeding blue crab.
It’s better to be looked over than overlooked. Unless you are picking your nose, scratching your crotch or sneaking the last of the Crab Imperial. Goddamn you.
When a family member does something of note, it becomes a story. Stories that embarrass the subject are more frequently retold. They are enhanced with each telling. Sometimes, no longer able to recognize themselves, the subjects also embellish the stories. These are the best.
Some rules are meant to be broken. Just do it with flair. But Jesus, Mary and Joseph—use a modicum of judgment.
It is not polite to eat with your elbows on the table. If you want to elbow someone, do it after dinner. Neither is it polite to talk with food in your mouth. Or about death. It puckers the fannies of the fainthearted and those who prefer not to see too much.
Everything will look better tomorrow. Although Mother is dead. Father, too. This does not get better.
You’re staring at that mole again.
Love,
K-B
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About K-B
Spawned by a Southern Baptist creationist and a liberal social worker, I inherited the requisite sense of humor to survive family dinner-table debates and the imagination to avoid them. As a political columnist at the San Diego North County Times, I won awards, a Pulitzer Prize submission, a fan club and death threats from angry readers—but, like my mother, the sales department loved me. I also wrote book reviews for the paper until the Union-Tribune ate it.
Long ago, the Chiron Review awarded me second place in its annual poetry contest; more recently, the San Diego Poetry Annual has published my work; and my creative nonfiction and commentary have been published by Trivia: Voices of Feminism, Ms. Magazine blog, San Diego Gay & Lesbian News, San Diego Free Press, Ocean Beach Rag, The Progressive Post, and iVory Towerz.
Photo credit: Karen Roe via a Creative Commons license.
