Push It

Possessing the usual characteristics of Italian Catholics – absent backbones and an unnatural devotion to the institution of motherhood – they oblige.

I occasionally go to these dinners for the same reason I read parenting bulletin boards and slow down at car wrecks.

My fine upbringing told me that surrounding myself with people solely because of their entertainment value was wrong, though.

But I couldn't help myself. I tried to stop, but it became my drug of choice. Better that than what they're on.

That family single-handedly supports the pharmaceutical industry. Ritalin. Paxil. Prozac. Zoloft. If it's trendy and overprescribed, they're on it.

And I adore them for it.

Whenever I speak with my boyfriend, I breathlessly inquire about his family. I didn't care how his day was or how he felt.

I wanted to know how the second hole in his teenaged cousin's ass was healing or if his aunt pissed her pants again.

I wanted to know if his 8-year-old female cousin stood over the toilet and demanded that God make her a boy or if his uncle had finally ended his miserable life.

The stories were great, and what made them even better was that they regularly talked about me behind my back. The hypocrisy gave me such a warm, smug feeling.

While it may have offended their sensibilities that I didn't want children, nothing I did compared to their antics.

Unfortunately, it was a rare day when I witnessed their truly outrageous behavior.

Until that beautiful, sunny July day.

Drunken Soccer Mom, Stupid Teen Girl, and my ex-boyfriend's mother and other aunt were gathered in the kitchen.

I was in the living room with the men. That's where they kept me. The womenfolk didn't like my presence.

I was told that they viewed me as a threat. Not in a Columbine way. In a "Dear God, she doesn't validate our mediocre existence" way.

That was fine. They usually reserved their entertaining conversation for the entire clan. I assumed their estrogen talks revolved around menopause and babies.

But I decided to find out for myself.

I quietly walked to the kitchen door and hung back so they couldn't see me.

The conversation was as dull as I thought it would be, but it started to drift toward my ex-boyfriend's 15-year-old cousin.

(I'll call her "Velma.")

The best way I can describe Velma is that several family members and I created a "When Will Velma Kill Her Parents Because The Voices Told Her To?" pool.

Stories about Velma and Stupid Teen Girl made dating my ex-boyfriend tolerable.

So, I was in heaven when Drunken Soccer Mom offered a touching tale about Velma.

Velma, it seems, was a late bloomer. I'm not sure sufficient hormones will ever kick in to push her past "asexual," but she managed to work up enough to bring on her period.

For the first few periods, Velma used pads. She stopped when the pad overflowed during school, and the kids taunted her more than usual.

(Which led to the creation of the "When Will Velma Bomb Her High School?" pool.)

To counter the problem, she turned to Tampax.

For the uninitiated, boxes of tampons come with graphic instructions. When my blissful moment of trickling blood arrived, I was quite able to plug it up.

Not so for Velma.

She tried and tried. That poor dear kept trying to shove that tampon in. Grunting and crying. Her fingers numb. Her cheeks stained.

And then she called for her mother.

Drunken Soccer Mom raced into the bathroom and asked Velma why she was so upset.

Velma explained the situation, and Drunken Soccer Mom asked if Velma read the instructions. That made Velma cry even harder.

Rather than tell Velma to try again another day, Drunken Soccer Mom gave Velma some assistance.

"Put your left foot on the toilet," Drunken Soccer Mom commanded.

And together, they tried to shove that baby in. Mom and daughter. Working together for a common goal: to dam the flow of blood.

When Velma's love hole refused to accommodate the tampon, Drunken Soccer Mom came up with a perfectly logical solution.

Drunken Soccer Mom whipped out the Vaseline, lubed the tampon and pushed it in Velma's twat.

All was well.

Drunken Soccer Mom told this story to all present, and without fail, it made the rounds with the rest of the family.

Almost a year later, I'm still debating which is more disturbing: that this incident occurred or that it was deemed suitable for casual conversation.

Providing jack-off material for white misogynists since 1997.

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