I love my husband’s family. Don’t get me wrong. But I cannot figure out how he managed to sop up half their cumulative IQ all by himself. These people are the most generous, sweet, god-fearing people you will ever meet — not that fearing god makes one sweet and generous. But sometimes I have to wonder if we’re not dealing with a touch of dain bramage.
The last time we were home, we made the mistake of busting out the board game “Cranium.” We would’ve had better luck making a mental connection if we had walked into a Wal-Mart and started speaking Latin to the door greeter.
There is this part of the game called “Humdinger” in which one person must hum a song, and the other team members must guess the title. Here is an abridged sampling of the numerous cards they had to return to the deck, because NO ONE on the team knew the songs: “Coming to America” by Neil Diamond, “Open Arms” by Journey, and “Twist and Shout” by the Beatles. I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you be forced to surrender your U.S. citizenship if you don’t know that first song? “They’re coming to America. TODAY!” I am ashamed to admit how many rush hours that little ditty has gotten me through. Put me behind the wheel of my earthfucker after a long day at the Evil Empire and I AM the fucking Jazz Singer.
To be honest, I am surprised the family lineage ever made it here from the old country. I mean, it would’ve required someone knowing how to get through the turnstiles on Ellis Island — a bona fide MENSA test for this lot. Now, if they would’ve had some church hymn Humdingers in the deck, they would’ve smoked our asses like a Swisher Sweet.
The one good part about playing board games with the whole fam damnly is that we get the opportunity to observe the intelligence (or lack thereof) of untitledhusband’s youngest brother’s girlfriend du jour. To qualify for the position, it appears that said girl’s jugs must be larger than her head (or at least a medium-sized honeydew). To their credit, these girls have all amazed me with one thing — their ability to remain standing upright regardless of the laws of physics. Ugh. For about one millisecond, I pity them. Then I remember that their monsterous milkers are accompanied by size 2 jeans.
But alas, it all evens out somewhere, people. All the brain power in the world cannot save me from the humiliation of having to rummage through the underwear table at Lane Bryant, looking for a pair that will both cover my ass and refrain from binding after a spin in the “hotter than hellfire” dryer cycle (the only heat setting impatient untitledhusband will use when doing laundry). For while I’m doing this, you can be sure that sista-girl is rockin’ out in Hot Topic, trying to decide between the leopard-print thong and the beaded halter top. Oh well. I know I could never sleep at night if I couldn’t hum the chorus to “Baker Street.”