MANDY FLYNN: I don’t see the humor

There are gracious plenty articles that tell you how to survive the holidays. How to cook a turkey. How to wrap a gift. How to decorate your tree. Even how to dress the dog to bring out his most festive best. But I couldn’t find one on how to address one of the most prominent side effects of gathering a clan who have known each other most of, if not their entire, life.

The stories.

I love family stories. I could sit around the kitchen table and listen to them over and over again. Except maybe a few of them. The embarrassing ones. The ones that Never. Go. Away.

“Remember that time …?” is how it usually starts.

“Remember that time you got out of your car and dropped the macaroni and cheese in the driveway?”

That one is about my sister, who really did drop the macaroni and cheese in the driveway before Thanksgiving lunch while we all watched in horror from the kitchen window. An honest accident. What was not an honest accident was the year she made chocolate fudge with Velveeta.

That comes up every year, too, but only if someone brings fudge. “Remember that time you made fudge with Velvetta? This wasn’t made with Velveeta, was it?” No disrespect to Velveeta intended.

I love family stories. Especially in our family. With six children, there are many. And I love them all. That is … unless they’re about me.

“Remember that time I was sitting on the couch with my new boyfriend and you thought you were in the bathroom but you weren’t in the bathroom and you were sleepwalking and …?”

Whoa up there, sister. First of all, I do not remember because I was all of maybe 5 years old and, hello, I was asleep, and what does this story have to do with anything anyway?

“It’s funny,” they always say, and I always feel heat rising up from my neck because I’m embarrassed, even though I don’t remember that night almost 45 years ago and, hey, are you talking about the boyfriend who ate his pizza with a knife and fork because that’s kind of weird, don’t you think? And I won’t even go into the fact that sleepwalking is no laughing matter.

“Remember that time we were at the beach and you were by the pool and we were at the window and when you walked by we made farting noises and everybody at the pool thought you did it? Remember that?”

Why, yes. Yes, I do remember that, and I still don’t think it’s funny and you should still be ashamed of yourself and, quite frankly, I still haven’t forgiven you and what does that have to do with the holidays anyway?

“Nothing. It’s funny,” they always say and I try to laugh it off but, hey, what about the time you bounced off the trampoline, but before I say it I realize that’s pretty lame and I won’t even go into the fact that gas is no laughing matter. But, hey, thanks for bringing that up yet again, especially since it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. But then I remember something …

Well … remember that time you wet your pants in the library and it made your loafers squeak when you walked, but before my sister can even open her mouth I remember …

“You weren’t even born yet,” she says.

The thing about “remember whens” is they don’t count unless you were there or, at the very least, born, otherwise you can’t use them as a rebuttal. Point taken.

Well, remember that time you made fudge with Velveeta? OK, so that is in no way even remotely related to the horrible memory of pooty noises, but I had to come back with something and, yes, it was lame, but I had no choice, no choice at all, and let’s be honest when it’s all said and done …

Velveeta fudge, even if you can’t taste the Velveeta, is no laughing matter.

No disrespect to Velveeta intended.

Email lifestyles columnist Mandy Flynn at [email protected].