Dont Mince Words

The Muppets have been around since I was young. But, like Mr. Hooper, old school, thinning felt Muppets die or lose camera time to their updated furry friends. Elmo received life in 1985 when a black man put his hand in Elmo’s ass and gave him that distinctive voice and laugh. With red hair and orange nose, Elmo is likeable even if he speaks of himself in the third person.

My youngest nephew, David, had an Elmo theme for his second birthday today. Balloons, plates, cups, cake…. All things were Elmo. It was Elmopalooza. At t-minus 15 minutes, I decided the only way to survive the onslaught of 2-4 year olds, as the only single, childless female in attendance. was to ask my friend, Samuel Adams for help. His tasty winter lager took the edge off. Of course, parents arrived with a look of semi-horror on their face. Oh shit, the zany, tattooed, foul-mouthed aunt is here and she has a beer in her hand at 11 a.m.

I managed to behave and when the urge hit me, I spelled out my cuss words. Kids climbed on me, babies pulled on my earrings. By beer number three, it was all good. During the festivities I made the keen observation that all parties are the same, no matter the age group. This may have been an Elmo party, but it was just like a frat party, gallery opening, or a dinner party. The usual characters prevailed.

Claire the Tattletale. This sweet little girl has ‘future bitch’ written all over her. When a kid had candy and there wasn’t any for her, she went running to the party hostess to complain. To top that, she elected to assist with present opening. Look out boys, this gold digger is bound to take her dressing on the side and drink white zinfandel.

Grant the Needy Jock. Grant is a character. I’ve known him for a few years and was concerned when he was young because he had a bubble head. His neck almost needed reinforcement. It appears he has grown into his head now; however, he’s turned into a spitter. In addition, he didn’t want pizza and required an alternate menu. My guess is Grant is going to be on the sidelines in his helmet and shoulder pads asking the coach for Fiji water.

Mason the Shy Mumbler. This kid is almost three and has a hard time enunciating words. Kind of like me after three beers. We carried on a whole conversation and I don’t know what the fuck he was saying. I did my loud-party-trick and nodded my head, uttered a few ‘oh really’s’, smiled and flipped my hair. To Mason, I appeared engaged and hanging on his every word. With his big eyes and shy disposition, I think Mason has the potential to get a lot of ass in the future, as soon as he works on his delivery.

Show and Tell Sam. My nephew and godson is the only person I know, next to Michael Jackson, who can entice a half dozen kids to come into his bedroom. Sam loves giving tours of his room and leading willing participants through his maze of toys. When Sam grows up, he’s going to be the guy with the gear. Would you like to come back to my place and see my new _________?

Catherine the Great. Miss Catherine has eyelashes to die for and the bitch already knows it. She has her bat-and-beckon routine down already. Beauty fades, Catherine. You will not age gracefully.

David the Animal. Sweet Dave is just a smiling, loveable mess with a deep voice and a passion for parties. I can’t decide if he is Flounder or Bluto yet. He will be closest to the keg and he will be the life of the party. It’s OK that he giggles like Elmo for now.

Rehab Matthew. This kid will have the Betty Ford clinic on speed dial. I think he went through five Elmo juice boxes in less than an hour.

Popular Muppets may come and go, but the characters we turn into remain the same.

If you have young children, send them away and don’t let them near the computer screen. I’m going PG-13.

When you are young, you want to understand all the mysteries of the world. My first unsolved mystery was sex. I didn’t want to do it, I just wanted to understand what all the fuss was about. Well, Casey, my slutty catholic friend, clued me in. I’m pretty sure 90 percent of this nation received sex education from an overexposed catholic before there was cable. It makes you wonder what they teach in CCD. But I digress…So, by the time my parents signed the sex ed movie permission slip when I was nine (their personal get-out-of-the-talk-free-card), I was already informed.

Then I became 10, my period came, and I developed a renewed hatred of boys. There was only one unsolved mystery left.

You never forget your first time.

It was December 1976. I was 10 years old and mom had bamboozled me to take a ride in the station wagon. We were ½ way up Powhatan Street, almost at the water reservoir, when she said, “There is no Santa Claus. We’re going to Toys ‘R Us and you are picking out the toys you know your brother wants.”

Was I disappointed? No. I was relieved. Logistically, Santa never made sense to me and I didn’t understand why NORAD wasted time tracking him. This further explained why Santa generally delivered crap to me. It wasn’t because I was naughty; it was because the list I diligently prepared for Santa was secretly re-sorted by price by my parents. December 25, 1976, my brother, Robert, had a very good Christmas because I managed to persuade my mom to get cool crap at Toys ‘R Us.

Why am I having this flashback almost 30 years later? Yesterday on the phone, it happened again. “Well, what do you think I should get Robert and Andrea for Christmas? I was thinking about making a donation in their name to the underprivileged families at the base,” said my mother.

That was a thoughtful suggestion, but I told her she might want to throw in a Target and Bath and Body Works gift certificate too. Now my mom’s present selection dilemmas are solved with gift certificates, with a little help from the eldest daughter.

Don’t tell my brother. It’s still a mystery to him.

Dad, I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.

Yesterday, Navy beat those Army pussies 34 to 6. I’ll never forget the game of 1989. It took me four hours to drive 100 miles north in the snow to get you. We took the Navy party train and shuttle bus from D.C. to Giants stadium. You weren’t in the best of health, but you wanted to see one more game before Robert graduated from Annapolis. It was a cold, miserable football game, but I enjoyed watching you smile at the midshipmen as they did pushups after every touchdown. We both got misty-eyed every time we sang Anchors Aweigh.

Today is the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It is hard to believe you were drafted for this war. Your generation is the only one that can get away with saying “those dirty, slant-eyed bastards.” Your generation is just about dead and existing Americans still don’t really understand what service to country means.

Today would of also been your 80th birthday. Now that is really hard for me to believe. It seems like yesterday you were baking me that 12-layer chocolate cake for my Sweet 16. I had that horrible Anne Wilson poodle perm and I had to pull my hair back so I wouldn’t burn it in my candles. If you had made it to 80, it would have been an achievement worthy of a 20-layer cake, a cigar, and a couple of strippers.

Today is also the day you would walk to the shed in the back yard and drag the artificial Christmas tree in for decorating. Mom would put that Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass Christmas album on the Telefunken and we’d hang ornaments as we watched Pearl Harbor remembrance programs and Charlie Brown. I haven’t had a tree since you died in 1995. I suppose I could get a baby fir and watch the History channel, but it just wouldn’t be the same.

Blue of the Seven Seas; Gold of God’s great sun

Let these our colors be Till all of time be done-n-n-ne,

Faith, courage, service true With honor over, honor over all.

Happy birthday and merry Christmas. You are missed.