Zen in the Art of Absurdity by Carla René & Steve Warburton & Barry Aitchison

Author:Carla René & Steve Warburton & Barry Aitchison [René, Carla & Warburton, Steve & Aitchison, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Fiction, Humor, Contemporary Women, Non-Fiction, Humorous, Contemporary, Family Life, Humor & Entertainment, Women's Fiction, Single Author, Essays, Fiction, Short Stories, Literature & Fiction
Amazon: B003ZYEVUI
Publisher: GlitterCat Studios
Published: 2010-08-16T22:00:00+00:00

We All Need Traditions

I kept feeling like I was committing a mortal sin if I sat down and wrote comedy about my family. I kept worrying that once this material hit the best-seller list, they were going to form a team, tag me and then release me back out into the wild to be disowned for telling the world the really dumb-ass things they did while we were growing up. Then it hit me: I had absolutely nothing to lose—they had already disowned me. Worry about me on Letterman? Hell, they barely recognize me in person: every five years I go home to visit and spend that “can’t ever get it back again” quality time watching my parents attempt to communicate with each other in their original set of grunts, whistles and hand gestures.

My family was always doing something stupid and the list extended for days: foolhardy, stupid, foolish, silly, idiotic, retarded, inane, childish, moronic, genius… . In fact, my favorite episode of "The Azalea that Almost Was," continues to this day in syndication.

Every year for Mother's Day, my mother, an avid gardener, would ask for an Azalea bush from my dad. And since he lacks any creativity, is naturally happy to comply. I mean, that's how he completes his Christmas shopping for her, too: She gives him a list of what she wants and he goes and buys it for her. But at least he has the good taste to wrap it, and she has the good taste to act surprised.

Back to the Azalea. The day before Mother's Day, he always heads to the local garden store, chooses the one with the brightest pink buds, brings it home, hides it in plain sight in the basement (she always knows it's there so pretends to never have a reason to go downstairs), and eagerly awaits the next day's presentation.

After returning from church the next morning, we'd take mom out for her special lunch so she could show off the Ficus-tree corsage that the pastor gave to all the women with the stamina to survive the birth of their children, and then return home and spend the rest of the afternoon belching up the cheap hamburger meat. Then dad would present mom with her plant, acting as if he achieved some grand accomplishment because he was able to follow a grocery list, and she would act surprised as if she had no clue that he was incapable of following directions. When we were done oohing and aahing over both of their achievements, mom would march us all into the front yard to the place she had already pre-chosen for the plant.

Why was I always the one to stick my foot where it didn't belong? "Mom, isn't that where you put it last year?"

She'd look around with deep concentration, stand back, scratch the two post-hysterectomy hairs on her chin and say, "No, I'm positive it was a foot to the left. Now get that spade and start digging."

Now me, not thinking I

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