Why Are The Women In My Family Such Messy Eaters?

My grandma had a notorious shelf on her. Yes I’m talking about the size of her bust line, and for educational purposes only. The sheer amount of crumbs, sauces, and various soft drink syrup stains that called her twin peaks home throughout their illustrious careers were hall of fame numbers great enough to impress the messiest of competitive eaters and smartest scientists. My grandma had a knack for making sure her shirts always had a carbon copy of whatever she was eating. No matter the meal or device she used to eat it. Plate. Bowl. Napkin. Her hands. Whatever it was. If it was going in her mouth, my grandma found a way to make sure she fed her shirt too.

Now fast forward to present day, where something is happening with my mom. She’s morphing. Or I guess in this case *animorphe… ing, as she’s fast becoming my grandma when it comes to how she chooses to distribute her food. Generous really. Everybody, or should I say every body part and clothing item covering it gets something. Is this what communism was supposed to be? My grandma is likely rolling over in the apartment complex for caskets she paid way too much money to live I mean lay in. Terrible joke. Sorry grandma.

Ok moving on. My mother. We sit down for dinner the other night. Spaghetti. I hadn’t finished scooting my squawking chair up to the edge of the dining room table when I noticed what looked like a crime scene left on her chest, displayed under the dim yet accurately directed dining room light like some expensive art piece. A spaghetti sauce stain. Well done mom. This was an impressive one. Red blotches scattered all over her chest like camouflage in various sizes and shades of red, successfully masking the colors of her actual clothing. And nothing on her face. Never. Somehow that was the sought after real estate immune from her eating. And I’m not over exaggerating… My mom looked like she recently returned from her bid as one of those fair people you pay to lob expired tomato pieces at from ridiculously far away. Yeah. Easy to talk shit when I’m trying to throw something the shape of a Chicago deep dish pizza slice the distance needed to complete most NF fucking L hail mary passes. Let me throw the whole damn tomato you scared little boy. Why am I throwing portions more suited for a house salad at you from across a damn football field when they’re so light the laws of physics won’t allow them to travel the length of a coffee table? Any way.

And I get splatter. We all splatter, especially with Italian dishes. Who doesn’t slurp up noodles like some dick hungry crack addict sucking cock for cash? Uhh I’ll raise my hand. If that’s against the law then lock me up. Guilty as charged. But when your shirt looks like Picasso ran out of paint and started using whatever he had laying around his kitchen, it’s either time to reevaluate how you shovel food into that pie hole of yours, or buy a damn bib for christ’s sake.