7 Holiday Fuck Arounds I Hope Don't Happen Again This Year

12/22/2010 · 16 comments

in Uncategorized

It’s been difficult to have a Christmas spirit today. I’m wandering around my home in an old jiu-jitsu shirt and cheerleading pants that are around 9 years old, frantically cleaning, wrapping, listing, and packing in anticipation of a vacation and my mother in law taking care of my cats while we are away–dildos and booze have been hidden (not that she would use either of those items. What the fuck is wrong with you, Leaguers?).

My house is a fucking hurricane of glitter, 409, and Long Island Iced Teas.

While every December threatens to destroy my mind with social events galore and the destruction of my hyper-organized (read: OCD) sensibilities in the wake of Amazon.com and their ridiculous shipping methods, I have the hope that this year will not be as bad as it has been in the past.

1. The Lubricated Christmas

When I was 8, my great grandmother gave me half a jar of vaseline with a tissue in it. Grace, 12, got 7 Bic Pens.

Yes, I know there was kindness in giving behind it. But at 8, what I saw in that gift bag was rejection. A lack of blisters for years and years to come, yes, but still–slippery, awful rejection.

The Sparkle Makes it Better

2. We Didn’t Have Motherfucking Rudolph.

This is, I think, one of my mom’s fondest memories of our family.

I’m baffled by this logic.

We used to live in the Texas Panhandle, and my stepdad, for a while, lived in Denver. My mom wanted us to be a family for Christmas, which God himself did not approve of, and on Christmas Eve, struck EVERY ROAD IN BETWEEN AMARILLO AND DENVER WITH A BLIZZARD TO END ALL BLIZZARDS.

Every road was closed. I remember being sad, but again, I still believed in Santa, and was certain that if we were not together on that day, Santa and Jesus wouldn’t leave any gifts.

So mom found a map, and we took backroads the whole way, driving 30 miles an hour through 2 feet of snow in her GMC. What was a 6 hour MAX trip turned into 14 hours.

Mom thought it was a bonding experience. To her, we were pioneers, or Postmen, who would stop at nothing for holiday cheer.

Grace and I did not comprehend or appreciate her Oregon Trail attitude. It remains as a memory of spite.

Tell Pa We're A-Comin

Did you know that it is Federal law to play Christmas Songs all day and night on Christmas Eve, and that I have heard literally EVERY version of Jingle bells? It haunts my dreams.

3. The Sunnyside Up Christmas

That same 14 hour Christmas, where the three of us drove so long in such horrible conditions to be with the the stepdad, he refused to spring for the $10 a plate brunch at the Adam’s Mark Hotel (which included entrance to the Gingerbread Competition Hall). That was too steep for the Ingalls Girls.

So we ate our Christmas meal at the Sunnyside Up Cafe, which apparently was the gathering place for every drug dealer in Denver (hooray for terrible alliteration).

Keep in mind, y’all, I was like, 9.

When the man behind us grabbed my cheek and said how cute I was, and what was a young girl like me doing on the bad side of town *wink*, we were done.

4. I’m Cool, My Face Broke My Fall

Adrian LOVES to snowboard. He’s very good at it. He’s that crazy bastard you see on a double black diamond, balls to the wall as fast as he can.

I prefer to go very, very slowly down some fairly flat runs.

But last year, while he was trying to teach me how to go toe-side on my board, I decided I’d make him proud and show off a little, going a lot faster than I usually do.

I pictured myself swishing by him, dazzling him with his wife’s talents.

In reality, I caught a tree branch sticking up out of the snow on the front edge of my board, flipped over 360 degrees in the air, and landed, with all my weight, on my face. 2 feet from Adrian. Mouth fulla’ snow and everything.

Have you ever seen the grape stomping accident video on YouTube? I made those noises.

But Snowier and With A Snowboard. Sexy.

5. Ma and the Mouse

Before it got destroyed in one of our house fires, we used to have a train that went around the tree. It was delightful. It spread cheer and some smoke-like substance for miles around (and subsequently, was only on for about 10 minutes or so at a time, as the “steam” created a pneumonia machine in our home).

One year, while Grace and I were putting it together, Ma spotted a mouse in the caboose of the train. Mice were not unusual for us, we lived in the country and a mouse or two was nothing to balk at.

However, a mouse in the caboose was panic-worthy.

Grace and I spent an hour building an impenetrable fortress around the train to trap said mouse. Upon poking the mouse to get him dart into the mixing bowl prison, Grace promptly discovered it was a Goddamn ball of lint.

Lint.

Not a Folded Mouse

6. Christmas At Normandy Beach

At my Granny’s house, we enjoy playing games at Christmas. But you know how I go too far with things?

That’s an inherited trait.

If you’ve never played Spoons, it can be a rather raucous game. This is proven by the many, many battle wounds my aunt has given each and every one of us over the years.

This woman is about 5′ tall, weighs about 57 pounds, and has taken a linebacker to the floor of the dining room for his spoon. Just last year, she bit Grace on the thumb, scarred my wrist, broke a sturdy chair, and destroyed a STEEL spoon. Decimated.

What was once a fun game for the game’s sake, has now become Russian Roulette on the Beaches of Normandy. Only those willing to die can come out alive.

Like Sophia Patrillo in Deer Hunter.

7. The Christmas that Didn’t Wash Off

Grace and I used to own pigs for 4-H.

What I mean to say is, we have always been classy ladies.

If you have never smelled pig smells, then you don’t know how horrible and permeating they can be. What has been smelled, cannot be unsmelled–or washed off. Ever.

So, as we are preparing to leave for my Granny’s house, we go to feed said pigs. Grace, almost immediately, falls into the pig pen, right into a massive mud hole.

Mom, as you know from the 14-Hour Christmas, is one for never looking back, and pushing forward in the face of even the most stupid conditions. She did not allow Grace and I to go home and wash off–and in her anger at us, slammed the door to the truck on her hand, breaking 4 of her fingers horribly in the process.

She never even flinched.

We drove 2 hours to my Granny’s House smelling horribly of pigshit and staring, half in awe and half in ardent disgust,  at Ma’s mangled hand.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Here's a Tree that Looks Like Untamed Bush. Welcome.

What’s the worst or funniest Christmas you have ever had?

Grace December 22, 2010 at 1:31 pm

Here are several thoughts I had:

1. It is sad that you have to say “one of our house fires” because yes, we have to narrow it down

2. She literally bit me, she broke the freaking skin

3. I have to do fecal samples on some pigs at work tomorrow and I’m thinking of bringing you some to put in your stocking just to re-live this little memory

4. Jingle bells has been recorded by Alvin and the Chipmunks, a pack of German Shephards, the Tonight show Band, Tim McGraw, PeeWee Herman, and a group of Korean Kareoke artists…and we have heard them all

elizabeth-flourish in progress December 22, 2010 at 4:29 pm

On a holiday road trip, I had to pee like a motherfucker but my parents would NOT stop to let me use the bathroom. Instead they handed me the bucket my McDonald’s happy meal came in and told me to use that as a restroom. I shit you not.

Being 8, I had no choice. It was the bucket or my pants.

When we finally stopped, my mom wanted to know it I still wanted to keep the bucket. She even offered to wash it out at the rest stop bathroom. My family is fucking awesome.

Noa Gavin December 22, 2010 at 11:36 pm

Why the fuck would you throw out the bucket? IT WAS A PERFECTLY GOOD BUCKET.

Amanda December 23, 2010 at 12:16 am

Since Noa asked why you would throw out the bucket, I have to ask, why would you keep the bucket? I worked at McDonald’s for 4 years and am therefore intimately aware of the size of the buckets. They don’t hold much of anything? What can you seriously store in them? How is a McDonald’s bucket contrued into a toy worth something?

Noa Gavin December 22, 2010 at 11:36 pm

The horrifying part about all of this is that I know, without a doubt, you are absolutely not joking.

Amanda December 22, 2010 at 10:25 pm

I’ve got nothing on y’all, but I’ll share my one skiing story. I was 13 and skiing for my very first time. I was not very athletic and did not take quickly to the whole skiing experience. It took me 3 days to finally feel comfortable on the bunny slope. My stepfather convinced me to go down the harder easy slope. (See, I don’t even know how the damn things are rated.) I did alright for most of the slope until we got to the last downhill stretch, which looked like it was a straight down. I forgot that you went side to side to slow yourself down, popped my skis into a V and plummeted straight down the hill. When I finally tried to turn to get to the exit, I fell, flipping over and over, taking out 2 of the plastic fence posts.

My little brother, 10 at the time, and infinitely more coordinated than I am, was riding up to a mid-level slope and heard about a girl falling and taking out 3 fence posts.

I haven’t been skiing since then.

Noa Gavin December 22, 2010 at 11:35 pm

Excellent! I prefer to sled on my snowboard when things get hairy–closer to the ground.

Amanda December 23, 2010 at 12:13 am

I should have stuck with sledding. On the same trip, my mom tried skiing one day b/c my asshat stepfather left her with my baby brother every other day so he could ski. The one time she skiied (past tense of ski, however you spell it. I’ve had one glass of red wine and, apparentlky, can’t spell or type.), she fractured her pelvis and had to be escorted down the bunny slope on a snowmobile. She found out ten years later during a bone scan that the pelvis had been fractured.

Noa Gavin December 23, 2010 at 1:12 pm

I picture you stumbling around with a glass of red wine while reading these. It fills me with delight.

hoodyhoo December 23, 2010 at 6:29 am

One Christmas I had wailed and cried and held my breath until I turned blue in order to express my desire for a Strawberry Shortcake (old-skool, not the new stuff) toy named “Maple Sugar.” She was a horse, and I think she came with a wagon to pull them dolls around in or something… but that’s not the point. The point is that “Maple Sugar,” like all Strawberry Shortcake dolls, was made of plastic that was, um, infused, I guess, with her signature scent. Her signature scent of Maple Sugar, or basically, pancake syrup. Which permeated the ENTIRE HOUSE seconds after I unwrapped her… literally forcing us to spend the day at my Grandma’s and “Maple Sugar” to go live on the porch for awhile. Years later, while cleaning out my attic — that damn horse STILL REEKS!

Noa Gavin December 23, 2010 at 1:11 pm

Oh Maple Sugar. I think Grace had one, too. She left it outside and the ants carried her away.

hoodyhoo December 24, 2010 at 5:37 am

shit, I never thought of that — even Goodwill didn’t want that thing!

Kernut the Blond December 27, 2010 at 11:14 am

My dad likes to give MAglite flashlights, Leatherman tools, and surge protector power strips. Year after year. I kid you not. He forgets he already gave them.

I want a tree that looks like an untamed bush. Awesome.

Noa Gavin December 28, 2010 at 9:09 am

Hah! I get a bungee cord every year. Glad to know I’m not alone.

k-dawg December 29, 2010 at 7:02 pm

This year my 83-year old grandmother gave me a half a bag of Idaho potatoes. About as useful as half a jar of Vaseline.

Noa Gavin December 29, 2010 at 9:41 pm

That is spectacular. Wanna grease some potatoes?

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