This choice: your stereotypical southern housewife, who greets me with a big hearty dinner! • Go Back... Enter my Aunt Rhonda—your stereotypical southern housewife.
Seriously, I don’t know what world she crawled out of, but living in the South for so long had definitely changed my Aunt over the years. I mean, to me she was always my Aunt Rhonda. I didn’t really see her enough to register similarities, let alone differences. But even I had to admit that my Aunt had picked up a lot more than an accent over the years.
“Mel!” my Aunt squealed as she wrapped her arms around me as best she could, “C’mere sweetheart!”
I felt the shape of my supremely svelter aunt press deeply into the folds of my gut, which gurgled and churned approvingly as if to say ‘hello’.
From my understanding, my Aunt looked more like Grandpa than Grandma. Whereas me, my mom, my sister, and all my cousins were all short-to-average height, blonde and pie-faced, Aunt Rhonda had a much more statuesque appearance. She was tall, and had her thick black hair cut in this retro 50’s ‘do that I thought did her angular face a lot of justice.
I squeezed her back, wrapping around her waist and enveloping her motherly frame with my doughy arms. She let out this happy little noise of approval, almost like a little giggle, and gave me one last squeeze before I let her go.
“Now don’t say another word; yes, I can tell yer just starvin’ ain’tcha?” my Aunt said with a not-so-subtle glance at my gut, incompletely covered by my increasingly lack-luster t-shirt, ”Now you go right on inside—don’t worry about these bags or nothin’.”
She gave me an affectionate little kiss on the cheek and pat my shoulder pitiably
“Poor thing. You’ve just been through so much, haven’t you?”
“I so have.” I pouted, sticking out my lower lip as I leaned into her hand as it cupped my fat cheek, “Thank you so much again for letting me stay with you, Auntie.”
My Aunt shut the car door behind me with one expert kick, and stood proudly with her hands on her wide birthing hips.
“P’sshaw. Your mama can talk about how “backwards” and “anti-progressivist” we are down here, but at least we know how to take care of our own.” My Aunt said with a definitive huff, “Now c’mon inside; you’ve got great timin’, dinner’s almost done!”
So I trudged my fat ass up the concrete walkway to their impressive ranch-style home. It was a lot nicer than I’d expected. I mean, not that I was expecting anything bad but, and this might have been my Mother talking, South Carolina didn’t exactly inspire images of picturesque typical suburban homes like this one. White picket fence, porch with rocking chairs on it, USC flags flapping in the warm summer night air...
Of course, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to any of that crap.
No, my mind went straight to food as soon as I stepped out of the car. My Auntie hadn’t been lying about dinner being almost ready—my expertly trained nose could smell an old-fashioned country dinner from outside the house! I lumbered greedily towards the front door as soon as I was given the clear, feeling the frame brush lightly against my ample side-fat. My gut entered my new home first, already roaring and commanding to be fed. A few more steps and I was inside, smacking my lips and breathing heavily in a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion.
After I was safely inside and following blindly the smell of freshly-made biscuits, my Aunt Rhonda tumbled in after me:
“Sweetheart, Mel’s here!” she hollered up the stairwell (ugh. Stairs. I knew that was going to be a problem.) “C’mon down and grab some dinner before me an’ her eat it all!”
After a few seconds, I heard some very audible footsteps coming down the stairs. It was…
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