Dad's family is from the hills of West Virginia. Upper Tract, West Virginia, to be exact (no lie, that's the real name). As a little bit of background info, here's some stats on Upper Tract, WV. The population is 897. Of those, 891 are white, 1 is Asian, 1 is Black, 1 is of mixed race and the other three are Hispanic. The average family income is $29,000 (poverty level for a family of 4 is ~$21,000) and everybody goddamn knows everybody and their business.
Every Easter for most of my growing up time we used to drive up to West Virginia to spend the holiday with my Dad's extended family. All of his immediate family live in MD, except my grandparents, who split their time between their house in MD and their house in WV, but the majority of the rest of them live in the Smoke Holes of WV.
The house up in WV belongs to Grandad D. It is a single floor home that sits atop 80 acres in the mountains of the Middle of Nowhere, WV. There are four bedrooms and a single bathroom. During Easter, there are four married couples and seven grandkids inhabiting this house (ie 15 people). Occasionally there might be a dog or two. All of the true adults get the bedrooms and all the kids get either the single cot, a couch, or the floor. The logistics of cramming 15 people in this tiny house get a little tricky during meals and when Kelly takes forever in the bathroom.
When I say this place is Middle of Nowhere, I seriously mean it. The closest major store is a Super WalMart that is open 24/7 and it's over an hour away. There's really nothing but rurally scattered houses and a shitload of churches in between. We also don't get cell reception within a two mile radius of the house.
Sometimes we would go up to WV because Dad would be installing something in the house, or helping out a cousin, or whatever. Back when I was a kid this house did not have air conditioning. It did not have cable. It did not have any games (except Monopoly, which you can't play by yourself). And it did not have a VCR. There were also no kids to play with, and even after my brother was born, we're seven years apart so it's not like you can have a two way interaction with an infant. West Virginia is seriously boring (though not as miserable as Cooperstown, NY). I ended up playing a lot of Gameboy and I read a ton of Goosebumps books. It's not nearly as bad now as it used to be, but jesus it sucked when I was a kid.
An odd part of the house is the third bedroom. It has the goddamn squeakiest bed known to man. The mattress rightfully belongs in a bouncy house and the awful squealing noise it makes when sat/slept upon is enough so that I can't sleep on it because every time I move I re-wake myself up. For a long time my Grandma referred to it as the "Honeymoon Suite" and I never understood what she meant. The day that I actually understood the joke I was so horrified that I never wanted to touch that bed again.
One time when we were on our way up to WV for Easter, I got sick. I was pretty young (Danny wasn't around yet) so I'm not really sure what kind of disease I had, but I do remember throwing up all over the place. I accidentally threw up on my new white stuffed bunny that I had gotten for Easter that year, and I remember getting hysterical because I thought I had ruined it forever (bunnies are white; barf is not). From all the close quarters living I basically got the entire family sick. There were so many barf buckets around the house that week it wasn't even funny.
Several years ago Danny brought a friend with him to WV. I'm not really a fan of Whiner to begin with, but this really annoyed me. He's a year older than Danny so he was probably 10 or 11 when we invited him to head up the The Hills for the weekend. Problem is he neglected to tell us he gets car sick. Of all drives, the one to WV (especially while driving through the twisty turny mountains) is not exactly conducive to people who get car sick. Two hours in Whiner is puking all over the backseat of our minivan and himself. What is normally a four hour drive turned into an eight hour drive because we had to stop so Whiner could puke not in the car, and stop so his mom could call in anti-nausea drugs to the nearest WalMart (my family and WalMart obviously have some sort of deep connection).
There's also the D family reunion. Now, Mom's family, who hails from an equally backward Pennslytucky town knows how to throw a party* (ahem, I mean reunion). Dad's family, on the other hand, hosts the most awful family reunions. Since Dad's parents are both the youngest of many children, everybody who shows up is old. Old people don't do fun stuff, they just sit around and talk. There is no music, no dancing, and nobody close to my age. Think my parents age (~42) and up, and then 15 and younger. My first cousins on my Dad's side are my age, but they've long since gotten smart and make lame excuses on why they can't come. Unfortunately, my mother (who isn't even blood related to the family...wtf?) got suckered into being in charge of it, so I'm forced to go just about every year. Let me just put it this way: one of my somehow related adult relatives showed up to our family reunion in camouflage underarmour. Camouflage underarmour. At our family reunion. She also has a wonderful permed mullet, courtesy of 1985. She's super nice, but still, her wardrobe choices leave a lot to be desired (this is the same woman whose Christmas cards consist of her three daughters posing in their respective camouflage with the most recent buck they've shot). The most interesting thing to ever happen at a D Family Reunion was when a man named "Rabbit" (seriously) crashed our reunion. He closely resembled the miner from Toy Story 2 and he must've hollered "YYYYEEEEEEE-HHHAAAWWW" about 20 times. I swear I couldn't make this shit up.
*In comparison, S family reunions frequently consist of day drinking, night drinking, drinking, jumping into swimming pools from the roof, speaker-blowing music until 3am, dancing, my uncle dressing up and singing as Elvis, and the occasional 911 call.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Vacationator
Last week I spent a whole seven days with my family in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
It started with an 8 hour drive. Oh, how I love being cooped up in a minivan with my fellow family members (ie Mom, Dad, Danny). I spent most of it waffling between being bored and reading. The rest of my time was spent yelling at my brother to stop farting in the van and tweeting about how awkward the South is. See below:
10 miles of traffic on route 50....can hardly contain my joy at being shut up in a minivan with my family.
A loud grunt is not the noise you want to hear when you walk into the bathroom.
The girl who was in the stall next to me was on the phone bitching out her boyf. At first i thought she was talking to me. #awkward
Saw a sign for "Harnett County's largest McDonalds playplace". Attractions in #thesouth
"Cafe Risque: 24 hour topless bar. We dare to bare." Really? 24 hours?
Just found a self breast exam card in the minivan #vacation
Just passed a house with 3 toilets sitting in the front yard #thesouth #vacation
As a further testimony to #thesouth, the following morning (a Sunday), I found myself in a Super Walmart at 6:30am with my Favorite Aunt, Grandma, and my Dad. They wanted to beat the 'rush' (who the hell rushes a Walmart on a non-Black Friday??) and I was bored enough to go with them. We were there so early that even the people who worked in the Walmart seemed confused to find us there. I must add that while browsing said Walmart (in the crafty section), I came across a pattern on how to make a muumuu for your dog. I will never understand legit Walmart shoppers. In perusing the book section I stumbled across the book written by the Duggar family (the 19 Kids and Counting people). They're like a freak show, you're horrified but intrigued at the same time. So I read that until my family came to get me.
That was also the day in which I realized that I forgot to pack the fundamental thing you need to pack when going to the beach: a bathing suit. Way to fail. This prompted an emergency mall trip in which my dad fell asleep in the Books-A-Million and I tried on a bazillion suits in order to just find one that fit.
On Monday I actually spent some time at the beach, though it's not like it's hard since my grandparent's timeshare is beachfront. While out in the ocean the following conversation occurred:
Me: Danny, why are you wearing underwear underneath your swimtrunks?
Danny: Because last year I got stung in the nuts by a jellyfish.
Mom: *solemnly nods*
Me: .....Well OK then.
On Monday night I decide to crack open some wine coolers we bought while trying to update my field journal for work. I decide that drinking and doing official stuff for work is the best idea ever. I also manage to get tipsy off of a single wine cooler. Well, at least I know my tolerance is also on vacation.
My Grandma tells me about the New York couple who have a son that just graduated from medical school. He's doing his residency at either Hopkins or UMD (can't remember), and he's single. I think Grandma mentioned that he was single at least five times. I also get to hear about the gossip from the rest of the people at the pool. See, my grandparents have had this timeshare since 1983. That means they come to the same hotel during the same week of every year. Their favorite thing to do is sit by the pool and talk to people, so I get to hear all the secondhand details, like Single Sonnyboy Doctor.
One of the things I like least about our timeshare is the bathroom. I'm pretty sure the last time the fan in that thing was updated was 1991, because it sucks. The other problem is that the showerhead is so low that I have to bend backwards 45 degrees to get my hair under the water flow. It makes me wonder if people in #thesouth are super short or something.
On Tuesday I FINALLY get to see Harry Potter 7v2. Love those gingers, a newly hot Neville, and when Voldemort uses "HUG" (It was Super Awkward).
Then there was the night that my family decided to let me choose where we ate dinner. While googling good places to eat I come across a place called "Suck, Bang, Blow." Though I am thoroughly intrigued, I save it for another day when my brother is actually legal. Instead I settle for a Pancake Place, only to get there and find it's not open for dinner. Then my Dad drives us around for another 20 minutes saying that we need to go somewhere that my brother and I will both agree on. Poor choice. Danny and I nearly beat each other up arguing over where to eat. Choosing a place to eat is when our Functional Dysfunctionality is at its best. All four of us have extremely different food tastes and preferences so even having two of us agree is time consuming and a pain in the ass. After driving the entire highway up and down looking for food, I DEMAND we go to a pizza place. Gino's NY Style Pizza is a dinky little shop, but they made me the best chicken and pineapple pizza I've ever had. All four of us enjoyed it, so I was pretty proud of myself.
I think that was also the day when my cousin's friend, English, who is in the Coast Guard, ended up teaching my brother and I some pressure point self defense type moves. This resulted in Danny frequently trying (and failing) to sneak up on me and incapacitate me for the rest of the week.
The next day while looking in the kitchen cabinets for a snack I come across a can of squirty cheese. I am instantly horrified, and Scruff tells me that "squirty cheese is not cheese; it is a blight upon society.". So true. That night I decline an invitation by my parents to sit by the pool and drink. Instead I decide to drink in the hotel room and dance to the live music (there's a beach bar next to the pool with live music daily) on the back porch. I drink 3 wine coolers, but I think the time between last eating and then drinking was too much because I got super nauseated. When I felt a little better the idea of sending drunk postcards came to me. I didn't have quite enough alcohol for that, but rest assured I will write some drunk postcards eventually.
Thursday my entire family (mom + me, + grandparents + aunt/uncle + cousin M & her fiance + friend of my other cousin) go to Steak and Shake. As this was my first time in a S&S, I was amazed to find it like a retro Friendly's. Previously I'd always though it was like a fast food type place. Learned something new, didn't I?
On Saturday morning I got up early to pack all my stuff. I thought I'd had everything but apparently I'd forgotten a pair of my dirty underwear. This really isn't my fault. I'd packed my stuff before Danny had packed his, and his giant pile of clothes was all over the place. His clothes were hiding mine, so I blame him. Anyway, Danny decides that it would be funny to run and grab said underwear, and then parade/throw it around the living room in front of my ENTIRE FAMILY plus English. While trying to chase him down I slipped on the carpet and fell on my sunburned hip. Sometimes my brother deserves to get his face punched in.
Before we actually drove home I made my family attend the first annual Myrtle Beach Reptile Show. I had a good time and I thought that there were a lot of cool critters there. However, if you think somebody is going to buy a damn Snapping Turtle for $500, you're out of your damn mind. Snapping Turtles are some of the most ornery animals known to man, and taking off a finger is tiddlywinks to them. If I want a damn snapper so bad, I'm gonna go out and catch one myself with a can of tunafish and a net (aka $10). Also, whose idea was it to put a bar in a reptile convention? Poisonous snakes and booze: worst combination ever. Really? I blame it on #thesouth.
Another thing I learned: Sam's Clubs in SC have liquor stores attached to them (!). One stop shopping is right.
And that concludes my bullshit ranting.
This post was brought to you by: Metalhead's request, Vladimir my MacBook Pro, and the letter I, for Insomnia because for some reason I can't seem to fall asleep.
It started with an 8 hour drive. Oh, how I love being cooped up in a minivan with my fellow family members (ie Mom, Dad, Danny). I spent most of it waffling between being bored and reading. The rest of my time was spent yelling at my brother to stop farting in the van and tweeting about how awkward the South is. See below:
10 miles of traffic on route 50....can hardly contain my joy at being shut up in a minivan with my family.
A loud grunt is not the noise you want to hear when you walk into the bathroom.
The girl who was in the stall next to me was on the phone bitching out her boyf. At first i thought she was talking to me. #awkward
Saw a sign for "Harnett County's largest McDonalds playplace". Attractions in #thesouth
"Cafe Risque: 24 hour topless bar. We dare to bare." Really? 24 hours?
Just found a self breast exam card in the minivan #vacation
Just passed a house with 3 toilets sitting in the front yard #thesouth #vacation
As a further testimony to #thesouth, the following morning (a Sunday), I found myself in a Super Walmart at 6:30am with my Favorite Aunt, Grandma, and my Dad. They wanted to beat the 'rush' (who the hell rushes a Walmart on a non-Black Friday??) and I was bored enough to go with them. We were there so early that even the people who worked in the Walmart seemed confused to find us there. I must add that while browsing said Walmart (in the crafty section), I came across a pattern on how to make a muumuu for your dog. I will never understand legit Walmart shoppers. In perusing the book section I stumbled across the book written by the Duggar family (the 19 Kids and Counting people). They're like a freak show, you're horrified but intrigued at the same time. So I read that until my family came to get me.
That was also the day in which I realized that I forgot to pack the fundamental thing you need to pack when going to the beach: a bathing suit. Way to fail. This prompted an emergency mall trip in which my dad fell asleep in the Books-A-Million and I tried on a bazillion suits in order to just find one that fit.
On Monday I actually spent some time at the beach, though it's not like it's hard since my grandparent's timeshare is beachfront. While out in the ocean the following conversation occurred:
Me: Danny, why are you wearing underwear underneath your swimtrunks?
Danny: Because last year I got stung in the nuts by a jellyfish.
Mom: *solemnly nods*
Me: .....Well OK then.
On Monday night I decide to crack open some wine coolers we bought while trying to update my field journal for work. I decide that drinking and doing official stuff for work is the best idea ever. I also manage to get tipsy off of a single wine cooler. Well, at least I know my tolerance is also on vacation.
My Grandma tells me about the New York couple who have a son that just graduated from medical school. He's doing his residency at either Hopkins or UMD (can't remember), and he's single. I think Grandma mentioned that he was single at least five times. I also get to hear about the gossip from the rest of the people at the pool. See, my grandparents have had this timeshare since 1983. That means they come to the same hotel during the same week of every year. Their favorite thing to do is sit by the pool and talk to people, so I get to hear all the secondhand details, like Single Sonnyboy Doctor.
One of the things I like least about our timeshare is the bathroom. I'm pretty sure the last time the fan in that thing was updated was 1991, because it sucks. The other problem is that the showerhead is so low that I have to bend backwards 45 degrees to get my hair under the water flow. It makes me wonder if people in #thesouth are super short or something.
On Tuesday I FINALLY get to see Harry Potter 7v2. Love those gingers, a newly hot Neville, and when Voldemort uses "HUG" (It was Super Awkward).
Then there was the night that my family decided to let me choose where we ate dinner. While googling good places to eat I come across a place called "Suck, Bang, Blow." Though I am thoroughly intrigued, I save it for another day when my brother is actually legal. Instead I settle for a Pancake Place, only to get there and find it's not open for dinner. Then my Dad drives us around for another 20 minutes saying that we need to go somewhere that my brother and I will both agree on. Poor choice. Danny and I nearly beat each other up arguing over where to eat. Choosing a place to eat is when our Functional Dysfunctionality is at its best. All four of us have extremely different food tastes and preferences so even having two of us agree is time consuming and a pain in the ass. After driving the entire highway up and down looking for food, I DEMAND we go to a pizza place. Gino's NY Style Pizza is a dinky little shop, but they made me the best chicken and pineapple pizza I've ever had. All four of us enjoyed it, so I was pretty proud of myself.
I think that was also the day when my cousin's friend, English, who is in the Coast Guard, ended up teaching my brother and I some pressure point self defense type moves. This resulted in Danny frequently trying (and failing) to sneak up on me and incapacitate me for the rest of the week.
The next day while looking in the kitchen cabinets for a snack I come across a can of squirty cheese. I am instantly horrified, and Scruff tells me that "squirty cheese is not cheese; it is a blight upon society.". So true. That night I decline an invitation by my parents to sit by the pool and drink. Instead I decide to drink in the hotel room and dance to the live music (there's a beach bar next to the pool with live music daily) on the back porch. I drink 3 wine coolers, but I think the time between last eating and then drinking was too much because I got super nauseated. When I felt a little better the idea of sending drunk postcards came to me. I didn't have quite enough alcohol for that, but rest assured I will write some drunk postcards eventually.
Thursday my entire family (mom + me, + grandparents + aunt/uncle + cousin M & her fiance + friend of my other cousin) go to Steak and Shake. As this was my first time in a S&S, I was amazed to find it like a retro Friendly's. Previously I'd always though it was like a fast food type place. Learned something new, didn't I?
On Saturday morning I got up early to pack all my stuff. I thought I'd had everything but apparently I'd forgotten a pair of my dirty underwear. This really isn't my fault. I'd packed my stuff before Danny had packed his, and his giant pile of clothes was all over the place. His clothes were hiding mine, so I blame him. Anyway, Danny decides that it would be funny to run and grab said underwear, and then parade/throw it around the living room in front of my ENTIRE FAMILY plus English. While trying to chase him down I slipped on the carpet and fell on my sunburned hip. Sometimes my brother deserves to get his face punched in.
Before we actually drove home I made my family attend the first annual Myrtle Beach Reptile Show. I had a good time and I thought that there were a lot of cool critters there. However, if you think somebody is going to buy a damn Snapping Turtle for $500, you're out of your damn mind. Snapping Turtles are some of the most ornery animals known to man, and taking off a finger is tiddlywinks to them. If I want a damn snapper so bad, I'm gonna go out and catch one myself with a can of tunafish and a net (aka $10). Also, whose idea was it to put a bar in a reptile convention? Poisonous snakes and booze: worst combination ever. Really? I blame it on #thesouth.
Another thing I learned: Sam's Clubs in SC have liquor stores attached to them (!). One stop shopping is right.
And that concludes my bullshit ranting.
This post was brought to you by: Metalhead's request, Vladimir my MacBook Pro, and the letter I, for Insomnia because for some reason I can't seem to fall asleep.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Halfway Holiday
It's getting to be that time of year again....CHRISTMAS (in july). I effing love Christmas, partly because of the family time and lovey-lovey-ness of it all, but (and let's get real here), PRESENTS is the real reason why people love Christmas.
Now, Christmas in my household is always nuts and it starts right after Thanksgiving. Being as it takes my mother 40% longer than normal people to do just about anything, the tree goes up early because it's going to stay up for a while. I believe the record for my family is the year the Xmas tree was up at Easter. Classy people we are, for sure.
Putting the Xmas tree up can go either one of two ways: if we all help it'll get done in a single night. If only Kelly is doing it, it'll take several weeks, generally culminating in a final family effort late Xmas eve so that there aren't various ornaments lying around on Xmas day. My dad refuses to help decorate the tree. He helps in his own way by making sure all of the Xmas lights work properly. Without fail, it involves a lot of cursing, in addition to bitching about why this family has to have both white lights and multicolored lights in addition to the large multicolored lights and garland. This is coming from the man who likes his Xmas trees with tinsel, which is honestly the glitter/herpes of Xmas decorations because that shit sticks around FOREVER. Even worse, it's a cat magnet. We already have enough problems with our cats attacking the lower hanging tree ornaments without adding some wiggling-in-the-breeze shiny things to the mix.
Then there are the ornaments. All four+ tubs of them. We have so many ornaments that Grammy had to give us her 9ft tree, because our old 6ft tree kept leaning more precariously every year. There are ornaments that I made in preschool, ornaments from when my mom was a kid, sports ornaments, Disney World ornaments, matching ornaments, candy canes--you name it and there's probably an ornament of it on our tree. The worst part is we're still acquiring about five ornaments a year. Without fail my aunt (the one that I don't really like all that much) gives all of her nieces and nephews Xmas ornaments for Xmas (how original). It's always those lamely generic Xmas icon ones from the middle-of-the-mall kiosk that have our names emblazoned on them. She keeps telling us it's "for our own Christmas trees one day". Like that shit's happening. I'll be damned if my future Xmas tree is going to be covered in ugly ornaments that have "SAMANTHA" all over them. I definitely don't want visitors to think that my tree is some sort of shrine to myself. I'm awkward but I draw the line at appearing to have designated the Xmas tree as my personal place of self-worship. Maybe I wouldn't mind as much if she splurged on a badass Hallmark ornament ('cause face it, those things up the swagger of a Xmas tree something serious), but that's not the case so I'm bitching about it.
There's always Dad's work Xmas party to look forward to (NOT), where 'kids' 18 and under get a present from Santa. There's a photo of me at 17 standing next to Santa (some skinny employee with an elastic beard), who is sitting down. Since I was wearing heels (which make me a little taller than 6ft), Santa's face is about level with my stomach. Instead of making me crush him by plonking down on his knees with my flat ass, Santa asked me if I had been good this year (yes...duh), shook my hand, and handed me an envelope with a Best Buy giftcard in it. It was super awkward. Since the party is usually in the beginning of December, I've been spared the embarrassment of attending since I started college. I'm not sure which is worse, having nobody even near my age to talk to, or watching the one family with 10+ kids continue to reproduce (I swear they rival the 19 Kids and Counting family). Not to mention awkwardly meeting my Dad's coworkers who I only see at this party. It's just weird.
Somehow we eventually make it to Xmas eve, which we always spend with my Dad's family by going to Grandma's house. Everybody brings some noms and we eat and carry on and then open presents, going from youngest to oldest. For years and years Grandma got me (and the rest of the grandkids) underwear for Xmas. And it wasn't just normal underwear. No, when I was younger it was Barbie underwear (I loathed Barbies), and when I got older she gave me Granny Panties. I don't understand how she could so grossly overestimate my size. I mean, I know I'm a little chunkadunk, but come on! One year I got underwear that was so large I could literally wear them for a bra and underwear at the same time. The moment that it got to be too far was the year when I got stuck with gross granny panties (yet again), and my much skinnier cousins (who are aprx the same age as me) got thongs. Not that I wear thongs*, but I was indignant that Grandma would treat her grandkids unequally like that. And I was a little jealous too. OK, I was a lot jealous. When I look back I'm a little mad at myself that I was jealous over thongs, especially thongs that probably came from WalMart, but that's the angsty teenage years for you.
*A few years later I tried out thongs for real. I bought a thong because my friend convinced me that I couldn't say I didn't like it until I'd tried it. Well, I wore that hibiscus thong around the house for two hours before my ass had had enough. Panty lines are worth every second that I don't have to dig my underwear out of my asscrack.
After we open presents on Xmas Eve we go to Church. My family unit is not religious. Sometimes Kelly likes to entertain the idea of being Baptist (as if), but let me tell you that I could give a shit less, and so could Dad and Danny. Dad's family, on the other hand, regularly attends church and his brother's family are the type that are super involved in youth group and choir (aka my Bible thumping cousins). We are definitely the Black Sheep of the family, if you couldn't tell. But on Xmas Eve the whole family goes, so we go. For the first 10 years of my life or so, it was the only other time we ever went to church besides Easter. After that it was the only time I went to church (until Kelly went on a Jesus binge during my middle school years). I tolerate the Xmas sermon, mostly because the Christmas Story never ever changes (it's the same pastor every year), and because secretly, I'm a mother fucking pyro and I LOVE lighting the candles during Silent Night and then getting wax all over the place. I loved it when I was a kid and I still like that part now. Last year my Dad added a new twist into the mix when he got bored during the sermon and we had a trying-to-blow-the-other-person's-candle-out fight. Kelly glared daggers at us the whole time because we were "embarrassing her". It's possible, since my Dad and I couldn't stop giggling about it like a couple of 5-year-olds. I deemed it the best Christmas Eve sermon I have ever attended.
We get home, go to bed, and then the real magic starts.
Confession time here: I believed in Santa until I was 13. I was that kid, the one that insists that Santa is real even when her friends are telling stories of stumbling upon their parents putting out presents while on a midnight potty run. I don't feel so bad about it, mostly because my brother also believed in Santa until last year (he's 14). The main reason I held my conviction for so long stems from a Christmas Eve night when I was 5 or 6 years old. Now I realize that it was probably raining, but at the time my juvenile mind heard pitter-patter noises and immediately thought that there were reindeer on top of the roof. My conviction on Santa held until I became too hard to buy for and my parents started letting me pick out my own presents, which showed up under the tree as, "To: Samantha, From: Santa". After that I just felt super stupid because I'm sure my friends thought I was an idiot.
Even after I stopped believing in Santa I still had to play along for my brother. We still left cookies for Santa (as a mean joke I would put out the stalest and grossest cookies I could find in our pantry) and "Santa" still left us a letter on the paper plate that formerly held cookies. The letter always told my brother and I to behave ourselves, and there was always a a note in there for me to 'stop talking back to my parents'. Thanks, Santa. On occasion, if Danny gave me trouble while I was babysitting him, I would 'call' Santa on my cell and tell him about all the horrible stuff Danny had been up to. In reality, the phone wasn't even calling anybody, but Danny didn't know that.
The worst part of Xmas is undoubtably the photos. Until I was taller than Santa (ie 13), my Mom made me (and later Danny) sit on Santa's lap in the mall and pose for a picture. If there is anything wrong about a young girl being hesitant to sit on a sketchy old bearded man's lap, then sue me. I hated sitting on Santa's lap. So much in fact, that Kelly used to have to bribe me to do it. Usually it was with $20 or so, but there were no set terms on what my face had to look like in the photo. Generally I was scowling. Or giving a really fake smile. Because I am classy as hell.
Finally, we return to the best part of Xmas: the presents. I've gotten some awesome presents over the years, including: my 1st cell phone! (2005), a basketball hoop (1995), a bike (1998), Guitar Hero (2007), a new laptop (2009, to replace the one I had just broken) and more books than I can count (every year!). On the flip side, if I don't give my parents explicit instructions on what I want for Christmas, I get stuff like this: mechanical air pump (2010), 20 shirts--all of which were practically identical but in different colors/patterns (2001), a group of size 18 clothes (2000, I wear a size 14), ugly watches (07/08/09), and an assortment of other weird stuff that might eventually make its way back to the spare gift bag in Kelly's closet.
My family doesn't have many traditions, but of the few we do have a bunch of them focus on Xmas. First off, we always film Xmas. We've done this every year that I can remember. Most years it's kind of dull. I can't imagine that in 20 years I'm going to want to watch myself open gifts at 12. But occasionally there's some weird thing that happens, like my brother calling someone a "fag" and subsequently the entire family yells, "DAN-NY!". It's on video.
On Christmas morning my Dad always makes breakfast. And not just normal breakfast. I'm talking a five-person operation of multiple burners, a griddle, the toaster, and the oven. Breakfast includes: scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, bacon, fried ham, sausage, biscuits, toast, cinnamon rolls, and orange juice. I have to say he's pretty good at cooking breakfast for a man who never eats breakfast.
Generally I spend the next 3 hours in a food coma. I love Christmas.
Now, Christmas in my household is always nuts and it starts right after Thanksgiving. Being as it takes my mother 40% longer than normal people to do just about anything, the tree goes up early because it's going to stay up for a while. I believe the record for my family is the year the Xmas tree was up at Easter. Classy people we are, for sure.
Putting the Xmas tree up can go either one of two ways: if we all help it'll get done in a single night. If only Kelly is doing it, it'll take several weeks, generally culminating in a final family effort late Xmas eve so that there aren't various ornaments lying around on Xmas day. My dad refuses to help decorate the tree. He helps in his own way by making sure all of the Xmas lights work properly. Without fail, it involves a lot of cursing, in addition to bitching about why this family has to have both white lights and multicolored lights in addition to the large multicolored lights and garland. This is coming from the man who likes his Xmas trees with tinsel, which is honestly the glitter/herpes of Xmas decorations because that shit sticks around FOREVER. Even worse, it's a cat magnet. We already have enough problems with our cats attacking the lower hanging tree ornaments without adding some wiggling-in-the-breeze shiny things to the mix.
Then there are the ornaments. All four+ tubs of them. We have so many ornaments that Grammy had to give us her 9ft tree, because our old 6ft tree kept leaning more precariously every year. There are ornaments that I made in preschool, ornaments from when my mom was a kid, sports ornaments, Disney World ornaments, matching ornaments, candy canes--you name it and there's probably an ornament of it on our tree. The worst part is we're still acquiring about five ornaments a year. Without fail my aunt (the one that I don't really like all that much) gives all of her nieces and nephews Xmas ornaments for Xmas (how original). It's always those lamely generic Xmas icon ones from the middle-of-the-mall kiosk that have our names emblazoned on them. She keeps telling us it's "for our own Christmas trees one day". Like that shit's happening. I'll be damned if my future Xmas tree is going to be covered in ugly ornaments that have "SAMANTHA" all over them. I definitely don't want visitors to think that my tree is some sort of shrine to myself. I'm awkward but I draw the line at appearing to have designated the Xmas tree as my personal place of self-worship. Maybe I wouldn't mind as much if she splurged on a badass Hallmark ornament ('cause face it, those things up the swagger of a Xmas tree something serious), but that's not the case so I'm bitching about it.
There's always Dad's work Xmas party to look forward to (NOT), where 'kids' 18 and under get a present from Santa. There's a photo of me at 17 standing next to Santa (some skinny employee with an elastic beard), who is sitting down. Since I was wearing heels (which make me a little taller than 6ft), Santa's face is about level with my stomach. Instead of making me crush him by plonking down on his knees with my flat ass, Santa asked me if I had been good this year (yes...duh), shook my hand, and handed me an envelope with a Best Buy giftcard in it. It was super awkward. Since the party is usually in the beginning of December, I've been spared the embarrassment of attending since I started college. I'm not sure which is worse, having nobody even near my age to talk to, or watching the one family with 10+ kids continue to reproduce (I swear they rival the 19 Kids and Counting family). Not to mention awkwardly meeting my Dad's coworkers who I only see at this party. It's just weird.
Somehow we eventually make it to Xmas eve, which we always spend with my Dad's family by going to Grandma's house. Everybody brings some noms and we eat and carry on and then open presents, going from youngest to oldest. For years and years Grandma got me (and the rest of the grandkids) underwear for Xmas. And it wasn't just normal underwear. No, when I was younger it was Barbie underwear (I loathed Barbies), and when I got older she gave me Granny Panties. I don't understand how she could so grossly overestimate my size. I mean, I know I'm a little chunkadunk, but come on! One year I got underwear that was so large I could literally wear them for a bra and underwear at the same time. The moment that it got to be too far was the year when I got stuck with gross granny panties (yet again), and my much skinnier cousins (who are aprx the same age as me) got thongs. Not that I wear thongs*, but I was indignant that Grandma would treat her grandkids unequally like that. And I was a little jealous too. OK, I was a lot jealous. When I look back I'm a little mad at myself that I was jealous over thongs, especially thongs that probably came from WalMart, but that's the angsty teenage years for you.
*A few years later I tried out thongs for real. I bought a thong because my friend convinced me that I couldn't say I didn't like it until I'd tried it. Well, I wore that hibiscus thong around the house for two hours before my ass had had enough. Panty lines are worth every second that I don't have to dig my underwear out of my asscrack.
After we open presents on Xmas Eve we go to Church. My family unit is not religious. Sometimes Kelly likes to entertain the idea of being Baptist (as if), but let me tell you that I could give a shit less, and so could Dad and Danny. Dad's family, on the other hand, regularly attends church and his brother's family are the type that are super involved in youth group and choir (aka my Bible thumping cousins). We are definitely the Black Sheep of the family, if you couldn't tell. But on Xmas Eve the whole family goes, so we go. For the first 10 years of my life or so, it was the only other time we ever went to church besides Easter. After that it was the only time I went to church (until Kelly went on a Jesus binge during my middle school years). I tolerate the Xmas sermon, mostly because the Christmas Story never ever changes (it's the same pastor every year), and because secretly, I'm a mother fucking pyro and I LOVE lighting the candles during Silent Night and then getting wax all over the place. I loved it when I was a kid and I still like that part now. Last year my Dad added a new twist into the mix when he got bored during the sermon and we had a trying-to-blow-the-other-person's-candle-out fight. Kelly glared daggers at us the whole time because we were "embarrassing her". It's possible, since my Dad and I couldn't stop giggling about it like a couple of 5-year-olds. I deemed it the best Christmas Eve sermon I have ever attended.
We get home, go to bed, and then the real magic starts.
Confession time here: I believed in Santa until I was 13. I was that kid, the one that insists that Santa is real even when her friends are telling stories of stumbling upon their parents putting out presents while on a midnight potty run. I don't feel so bad about it, mostly because my brother also believed in Santa until last year (he's 14). The main reason I held my conviction for so long stems from a Christmas Eve night when I was 5 or 6 years old. Now I realize that it was probably raining, but at the time my juvenile mind heard pitter-patter noises and immediately thought that there were reindeer on top of the roof. My conviction on Santa held until I became too hard to buy for and my parents started letting me pick out my own presents, which showed up under the tree as, "To: Samantha, From: Santa". After that I just felt super stupid because I'm sure my friends thought I was an idiot.
Even after I stopped believing in Santa I still had to play along for my brother. We still left cookies for Santa (as a mean joke I would put out the stalest and grossest cookies I could find in our pantry) and "Santa" still left us a letter on the paper plate that formerly held cookies. The letter always told my brother and I to behave ourselves, and there was always a a note in there for me to 'stop talking back to my parents'. Thanks, Santa. On occasion, if Danny gave me trouble while I was babysitting him, I would 'call' Santa on my cell and tell him about all the horrible stuff Danny had been up to. In reality, the phone wasn't even calling anybody, but Danny didn't know that.
The worst part of Xmas is undoubtably the photos. Until I was taller than Santa (ie 13), my Mom made me (and later Danny) sit on Santa's lap in the mall and pose for a picture. If there is anything wrong about a young girl being hesitant to sit on a sketchy old bearded man's lap, then sue me. I hated sitting on Santa's lap. So much in fact, that Kelly used to have to bribe me to do it. Usually it was with $20 or so, but there were no set terms on what my face had to look like in the photo. Generally I was scowling. Or giving a really fake smile. Because I am classy as hell.
Finally, we return to the best part of Xmas: the presents. I've gotten some awesome presents over the years, including: my 1st cell phone! (2005), a basketball hoop (1995), a bike (1998), Guitar Hero (2007), a new laptop (2009, to replace the one I had just broken) and more books than I can count (every year!). On the flip side, if I don't give my parents explicit instructions on what I want for Christmas, I get stuff like this: mechanical air pump (2010), 20 shirts--all of which were practically identical but in different colors/patterns (2001), a group of size 18 clothes (2000, I wear a size 14), ugly watches (07/08/09), and an assortment of other weird stuff that might eventually make its way back to the spare gift bag in Kelly's closet.
My family doesn't have many traditions, but of the few we do have a bunch of them focus on Xmas. First off, we always film Xmas. We've done this every year that I can remember. Most years it's kind of dull. I can't imagine that in 20 years I'm going to want to watch myself open gifts at 12. But occasionally there's some weird thing that happens, like my brother calling someone a "fag" and subsequently the entire family yells, "DAN-NY!". It's on video.
On Christmas morning my Dad always makes breakfast. And not just normal breakfast. I'm talking a five-person operation of multiple burners, a griddle, the toaster, and the oven. Breakfast includes: scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, bacon, fried ham, sausage, biscuits, toast, cinnamon rolls, and orange juice. I have to say he's pretty good at cooking breakfast for a man who never eats breakfast.
Generally I spend the next 3 hours in a food coma. I love Christmas.
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