A Lesson Learned 'round the Turkey Table

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My mom has something against my boobs.

I mean, say what you will about my character. Frown at the unladylike and awesomely sarcastic comments I throw at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (I'm looking at you, Boys Like Girls. Goddamn you just make it so easy with that haircut.) Glare at me across the room when I pepper my smack talk with mild curses at the annual Erin's family UNO tournament. Relegate me to stirring gravy after bemoaning my cooking skills. But do not - do NOT - insult the girls.

I'm not joking. 3 days of getting my shirt tugged on to cover the barest hint of decollotage had me alarmed that some sort of reverse Electra complex was at work here. Or worse yet, that my mom was making a religious commitment to modesty in honor of the pilgrims. I was silently banned (you have no idea what my mom can convey with her eyeballs) from crossing my arms because some sort of lift & seperate action would be triggered and cleavage would be revealed, inevitably.

It's taken years to get these things where I want them to be, and I won't apologize. Though blooming late is certainly responsible for this excellent personality I have, it didn't do much for the old self-esteem back in the day. So now that I'm feeling (too?) good about this issue, let's not take me down a few pegs. And, the more I witness the mind-addling side effects of menopause, the more convinced I am that it's better to abandon ship at 40.

...And that's just one of the many delightful lessons I received while at the ol' homestead for a few days. Oh Thanksgiving, you are without a doubt my least favorite holiday.

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