Today is the Day of the Dead. An important holiday for remembering and celebrating late loved ones through anecdotes and funny stories.
Which might not mean much to non-Mexican Norte Americanos, but it should. Because it’s an excuse to replay old memories like worn out records.
Well, as it happens I have one such story. It’s not humorous or anecdotal, mind you. But it is deeply traumatizing, and that’s almost the same thing.
I speak, of course, about the time when my late mother-in-law saw me naked.
I’ll pause here. Because I'm sorry if this is offensive. I consider myself a sincere gentleman. I mean it. I open doors for ladies, watch my language, and I never slouch. But the truth is—and I can hardly say it—my mother-in-law indeed saw me wearing nothing but the Joy of the Lord. And I mean the full biscuit.
Don't make me repeat myself.
It happened years ago. And the violation occurred right in my own house. I'm forever traumatized. In fact, just writing about this causes unpleasant feelings to start swimming inside me, some of
which date back to middle-school locker-room showers.
I can't really explain how it happened. All I know is that one moment I'm waltzing across my empty house after a shower, enjoying the invigorating springtime air, then (WHAM!) a peeping Thomasina is standing in my kitchen.
“Mother Mary!” I squealed—but in a masculine tone. “How'd you get in here?”
“I have a key, ding-a-ling.”
"Please don't use that word."
She handed me a stack of envelopes, but did not turn away. Her demeanor could only be described as unimpressed. "I was bringing your mail."
I felt my face get hot. “My eyes are up here.”
“It’s mostly just bills.”
“Miss Mary, I'm naked."
She agreed with this.
Then without breaking her non-Methodist stare, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t bring any ones or fives with me.”
Without uttering another word…