Big Old…

My mother brought me to a party the night I landed in Florida last week. Her friends H and C were throwing this gathering of holiday cheer.

Booze was flowing and a good time was being had by all. I felt a bit ill at ease drinking heavily in front of my teetotaling mother, but somehow I persevered.

There was a young woman there. You know this girl. She is the good time Charlie friend, the friend you end up with at karaoke bars and dingy dives. Some call her free spirited, but she may also be completely crazy. She is fun to hang out with, but you would probably never call her in a crisis. Something on the way would distract her as she was rushing to your aid.

She is the kind of girl who gets ridiculous tattoos on her thigh and then drops her pants in front of a room full of people to show it off.

So, we all have this friend. Great fun and good times, but perhaps not the stablest one in the lot. If you don’t have that friend, stop and think about your life. You are that friend. Sorry to break it to you. By the way, love your tattoo!

My mother remained pretty composed when the pants dropping commenced. I steadfastly mainlined the Merlot.

Somehow the story bobbed and weaved to the topic of misunderstood song lyrics. This is when our new charmingly nutty friend informed us that as a little girl, the lyrics to “Jet Airliner” by the Steve Miller banded proved elusive.

She then lead the party in her childhood version:

Big, old, fat vagina. Don’t carry me too far away!

Which, I guess does make sense. I certainly would never want to get carried away in a big, old, fat vagina. I suppose it would be warm and welcoming, yet still. I prefer first class and steaming towels. I don’t think I can watch episodes of the Wire if I was traveling in a big, old, fat vagina. Do they have power outlets in those? Oh, God. Do they? That would change everything.

Now, I know it is odd that I would feel uncomfortable about this chorus of magical, vaginal traveling. I am hardly reserve and I have been subjecting my poor mother to outlandish behavior for years, but I endured a brief moment of mortification. I am sure it is some sort of karmic payback, the Universe teaching me a lesson.

So, for the rest of the trip, my mother and I would find ourselves slipping in to song. This year, we did not get an opportunity to sing “Feliz Navidad” but the Christmas spirit filled our heart and our home in a big, fat way.