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.