Ho, Ho, Ho: A Preview, Part I

Since tis the season, and I will soon be returning home to Boston for the holidays, I figured now was a good a time as any to give you all a glimpse into the ridiculousfest that is Christmas with my family. If you know my family, depending on how well, you will either be completely surprised or completely understanding, and most likely laughing at me. I preface this by saying that my family, most of the time, is extremely WASPy. I could delve more into that, but I’ll save it for another time. Also, everything is 100% true. I swear, I could not make this shit up. So without further ado, an itinerary of the holiday events in store for me:

Prologue

For my entire life, we have celebrated the actual Christmas day with my mother’s side of the family, located in Connecticut. When my brother and I were little, my parents decided that it wasn’t really fair that we didn’t get to have a real Christmas morning, with the whole Santa coming down the chimney ordeal, and opening presents under our own tree in our own house. So, along with the legacy of Santa Claus, my brother and I were told that my parents had written a letter to Santa, asking him to come to our house a day early, on the 24th. Hence, we had our “Christmas Morning” technically on Christmas Eve. The fact that I fell for that is just a testament to what a bright child I was, but I do remember thinking the rest of my friends were suckers because I got all my presents a day early.

So, morning of the 24th, my parents, brother and I open presents from each other. This process has evolved from my brother and I getting up obscenely early, ravaged with excitement, and waking up our parents, to now our parents dragging us out of bed at what I deem an obscene hour when I’m on vacation, 9am. Another tradition has been that our parents would go downstairs first, and my brother and I would have to wait, eagerly sitting at the top of the stairs, for them to say they were ready. This was usually because my dad would set up the camera so he could take our picture/video when we first came down the stairs, and probably so they both could make themselves a cup of coffee. I used to think it was because they didn’t actually put out the presents until then, but one year I snuck down early and discovered that theory was false.

Believe it or not, they still make us do this. If, by some miracle, we do manage to drag ourselves out of bed on our own accord, we’re still forced to wait at the top of the stairs until our parents are “ready”. Except now, usually both of them are already down there, on their second cup of coffee, and yelling up the stairs at my brother and I to get out of bed and come down.

So, we finally make it down there and open presents. Nice, right? It used to be. A couple years ago, my mom created a system when she bought presents for us (my dad included). The system being, that they had to be opened in a certain order. So on each wrapped gift, there would be a tag with a number, and my mom would have a corresponding list that had each number and what gift it was. The original idea behind this was, I think, for when we would get one “big” present, and she would want us to save it for last, or if there were a couple gifts that were somehow related to one another. However, it kind of takes the fun out of the whole process when you’re gleefully grabbing a present to open, only to have your mother ask, “What number?!” And then scramble to put her glasses on, peer at the list, which she can barely read, and then say, “No, no, don’t open that. Open something else.”

“Uh, okay. How about…7.”
“Hmm. No, not that one either.”
“4?”
“No. Try and find 2.”

Sounds like a blast right? Chock full of merriment. So after the rousing round of gift-opening, we have breakfast together. Great. And then as we’re wrapping up, my mom will suddenly look at her watch and realize that we are incredibly behind schedule and everyone needs to get moving because we have to be in the car and on the road in no less than an hour. Which then results in my brother and I sprinting to get in the shower, and usually battling over who gets to go first. I always win because I, being female, have the burden of needing to blow-dry my hair. Victory for women everywhere!

Somewhere between an hour and a half to two hours later, we are finally packed and in the car. Broseph and I are crammed in the backseat, which should normally be a comfortable ride since my dad has a pretty nice car, but not on this occasion because we are crammed in with bags full of gifts, platters of food or some kind of dessert, and usually a plant of some kind that my mom is giving as a hostess gift to someone.

Nine times out of ten, usually right when we’re merging into traffic on the highway, my mother will suddenly gasp frantically upon realizing that she’s forgotten something that is so important we have to turn around and go back. My dad at this point is already grumbling because he was the first one ready and waiting in the car, and Broseph is grumbling because he has to sit through the ride in pants and a tie. We all have to be dressed for the evening’s festivities when we get in the car since we’re going directly to said festivities’ locale. Do not stop, do not pass Go. I, however, am completely content since I’m in my sweats. No way in hell am I sitting through a three hour car ride curled into a 2’x2’ area in tights, a dress, and heels, thank you very much. And although it means that once we get close to our destination, I have to somehow perform a miracle change and finagle myself into the outfit, it’s worth it.

So, my dad speeds home while my mom is white-knuckling the armrest, I usually am elected the one to run back inside the house and grab it since I’m wearing moveable clothing, and then we’re pulling back out of the drive for the second time. After a brief stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee (priorities), we finally get on the highway and start the trip, at which point my brother and I promptly put on our ipods and tune out.

Chapter 1

Our destination on Christmas Eve is the home of my aunt and uncle, Tracey and Joe, who live in a palatial estate in Westchester, New York. I babysit for their three kids, my cousins, pretty often and I love going to their place because it’s so huge I get my own wing of the house, they have a pool and hot tub, and my uncle is an absolutely amazing cook. Of course, being how close in proximity they live to Manhattan, it would make a whole lot more sense every year if I just stayed in the city until the 24th, then hopped on a train, instead of schlepping all my stuff all the way home, only to turn around and come almost all the way back two days later. But, of course that would mean I would miss out on the Callahan Family Christmas Morning, so it is Not An Option.

We are always the last ones to get there, without fail. As soon as we pull out of the driveway, two of my three cousins come tearing out the front door, screaming our arrival. Joey is the youngest, at 8, Brooke is 12, and Jay is 14. Brooke, and I say this only because its true, is obsessed with me. She has told her mom, and apparently anyone who will listen, that she wants to be just like me when she gets older, because I am “perfect”. Don’t ask me how she came to that conclusion. It’s a mystery. And I don’t think I have to worry about her becoming just like me, because, at 13, she’s already prettier than me and much less of a bitch.

We make it inside, where everyone else is waiting. We make the rounds saying hello to everyone, answering the same “how was the ride?” question a million times, and when we’ve finally got our coats off, drinks in hand, and my mom is safely ensconced in the dining room creating a flower arrangement for the table centerpiece, the real fun begins.

First and foremost, there is the eating. Platters upon platters of hors d’oeuvres before we’ve even sat down for dinner. My uncle cooks everything on Christmas Eve, and its one hell of a production. Joe is this huge, Italian, hulk of a man, and like I said, he’s a fabulous cook. They redid their house a few years ago, and now have this unbelievable kitchen with two refrigerators, two ovens, and a full griddle, not to mention a full bar. He spends pretty much the entire night in the kitchen, even when the rest of us are eating dinner, and it’s almost impossible to get him to sit down at the table.

The cocktail hour is really when the most energy is required. Everyone is asking a million questions about school, and work, and the film I produced, and plans for next year, and my roommates, and New York, etc etc etc. Usually I can anticipate most of the questions beforehand and come up with acceptable answers for them before I get there so I’m adequately prepared. My cousin Adam and his girlfriend (and soon to be fiancée, we hope) Lucy, also live in the city, and they can usually be some kind of a buffer. They were actually crucial in helping me get my first apartment, when my parents didn’t want me to live somewhere without a doorman. Adam and Lucy were able to back me up in convincing them that it was completely unnecessary and most people don’t have doormen, anyway.

The cocktail hour is also, understandably, when we (okay, I) drink the most, and I constantly have to remind myself that the evening is a marathon, not a sprint. With the barrage of questions, the amount of times I take a sip of a drink just to stall an answer or fill an awkward silence would alone be enough to get me sufficiently buzzed. Luckily, I am not alone. Everyone except for my grandmother and the kids, and usually my dad, are tipsy by the time dinner rolls around. Especially my mother, all 98lbs of her, who tosses back gin and tonics and mojitos like water.

We finally sit down to dinner, which consists of seven, count ‘em, SEVEN courses. I kid you not. Including: antipasto, meatball soup, salad, ceviche, some sort of shrimp dish, manicotti, and chicken in some form, Oh, and later, there’s dessert. Luckily, I don’t eat seafood so I don’t have to participate in every course. But even so, its an obscene amount of food. After we’ve been eating hors d’oeuvres for an hour and a half. And like I said, my uncle spends most of the time in the kitchen, whether preparing for the next course, cleaning up from the previous one, making more of something, etc. Meanwhile, the rest of us are crammed around the dining room table, there’s ten different conversations flying around the room, and boy are we LOUD. Complete chaos.

You’d think that after such a big dinner, everyone would relax with coffee and maybe a platter of cookies before eventually making their ways out the door. Oh no, my friend. If only. After dinner, the night is but half over and the real entertainment is yet to come.


To be continued…