The Family That Catches Crabs Together Also Has Hot Sex Together

Another Christmas come and gone. It’s hard to believe that after all that, it’s all over. All that we have left are the memories. The ones that aren’t blacked out. And those will last forever.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions is a little party we have called UFO Christmas. UFO for my uncle’s initials. And it’s just catchy.

When my mom died, all of our traditions died with her. But of everything that is our new normal, this is the best one. We don’t have it on Christmas. It’s always another day that we can relax and enjoy each other’s company. And get blind drunk.

We like to live it up and try new drinks. My brother Juan likes to get creative. One year he made this concoction that I’m pretty sure contained the date rape drug. None of us can remember anything from that night. And it took us a long time to be able to look each other in the eye after that UFO Christmas.

The UFO Christmas crowd contains a lot of the people that we went to Hilton Head with this past summer. While on vacation there was a lot of crab catching going on. The kids loved to say I want to catch crabs with my cousins. The jokes were endless.

So you can imagine the hilarity that ensued when Juan broke out the bottle of “Hot Sex”. Nothing like having some hot sex with your family at your holiday party. I needed a cigarette after all the hot sex I had. It was a great time, as per usual.

A family affair
A family affair

This Christmas was the most fun I have had since having kids. I’m still not sure who was more excited. Me or the kids. But it wasn’t all I was hoping it would be. I didn’t get what I really wanted this year. Some God damn privacy!

When it comes down to it that’s all I really want in life. I want to pee alone. If you can see my tampon string, you’re too freaking close! Now get the hell out of here.

At least we now have a lock on the bathroom door. Actually at least we now have a door. We didn’t. For a little bit. It was awkward when we had company over. I remember telling one of the neighbor kids, it’s okay honey, just go ahead and go pee, we won’t look.

Even though we have a lock, I tend to not use it all that much. Because you know damn well the moment I step in that shower someone is pounding on that damn door with the emergency of a lifetime. And I have concluded that I would rather let them in than get out soaking wet to open the door for them.

I’ve never really been a dreamer. All I wanted out of life was to find a prince charming that could drink more than me and to have a bunch of kids. Turns out drinking a lot and having kids goes hand in hand. Like two dreams come true in one.

Nowadays all I dream about is having my own bathroom. And being alone in it. A few years ago my Aunt Batsy spent three days in her bathtub because she lost her damn mind. I’m not going to lie. I was jealous. Three days. To yourself. Soaking in a tub. Sounds like heaven.

Me dreaming of privacy
Me dreaming of privacy in my new jammies

I would settle for my own tube of toothpaste. One that has a cap. One that you don’t have to push the fresh paste through the crusted paste.

I dream about my own shampoo. That is never empty. Leaving me to wash my hair with baby wash. Which isn’t really wash at all. Not when you’re a grown ass woman.

I just want my own kid-free toiletries. I love how my kids can’t get enough of washing their butts with my loofah. When I know damn well they never use toilet paper. I can’t even go there. Pretty sure I just did.

We’ve had several conversations about tooth brushes and how they are a personal product. But the things I’ve seen them do to their own only makes me wonder what happens to mine when I’m not looking. Barf.

Every night I have the same dream. It’s Robin Leach describing my very own private bathroom. My champagne wishes and caviar dreams are now a clean bar of soap and dental floss that hasn’t been used. Ever. By anyone. For any reason.

And the door has a lock. And the walls are soundproof. And kidproof. And bulletproof. (This is Chicago.)

Well there’s always next Christmas. Perhaps Santa will get it right next year. Until then, I’ll be enjoying the comfy pajamas I did receive. I’ll put them on and crawl into the kid-less bed in my dreams.

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