Ho, Ho, Ho: A Preview, Part II

So after everyone has finished dinner and we're all sitting around the table, there will be a (very) brief lull in conversation, at which point someone will casually mention, "Should we do presents?" Which sets off the three kids shrieking and screaming "PRESENTS!!!!" and running around in circles. It will take a solid thirty minutes to an hour to get everyone migrated into the living room, seated, while they've delegated the duty of dispensing the presents to a younger minion (read: me). Meanwhile, the three kids are tearing open presents with reckless abandon, making as much noise as possible throughout, screaming how much they love each gift for about three seconds until they realize they have more to open and toss it aside. My mother and her sisters open their gifts and are squealing almost as loud as the kids are, and yelling to each other across the room. My dad, brother, and Uncle Larry are drinking beers in a corner. I open my presents slowly, pretending to enjoy the process until I remember that no is paying any attention. After I've opened them, I attempt to get the attention of the giver by waving frantically and mouthing "Thank you" or yelling "I LOVE IT" over the ruckus.

After everything has been opened, the kids are temporarily entertained by whatever they've been given, and the entire room is covered in wrapping paper, I breathe a temporary sigh of relief and head back to the bar. Not too soon after, someone decides it's time for dessert. Plates upon trays are brought out from somewhere and arranged on the table. At this point, Joe and my dad head out to the back porch to smoke cigars, where they are soon joined by Adam. It takes about two minutes for the discussion to turn to politics, and another minute until those of us inside can hear them yelling at each other. Joe is a Republican, and Adam is a raging liberal Democrat, and my Dad sits there and mediates the both of them, keeping quiet until he drops in a comment that neither of them can respond to. To which they acknowledge for a moment, and then start arguing again.

Meanwhile, inside, everyone else has attacked the desserts, despite the fact that everyone is moaning about how full they are and how much food there was. There is coffee and tea, but mostly everyone is still hitting the bar. Hard.

Another inexplicable tradition of Christmas that I have never been able to find a reason or origin for is the Pickle. It dates back to when my grandmother had Christmas Eve at her house, and she had all these tacky ornaments on her tree, one being a metallic pickle. Every year, she would hang slash hide the ornament on her tree somewhere, and we kids (back then my brother, cousins, and I were the "kids") had to find it. First one to find it won a big scratch ticket and got to keep whatever the prize money was. Apparently there was never any objection, much less a raised eyebrow, at the encouragement of gambling from a young age. So my grandmother would say the word, and the Broseph, Adam, Shannon, and I would scour the tree, elbowing and shoving each other out of the way trying to find it. Whoever did spot it would dive for it with a yell, wrench it off the tree in a shower of plastic pine needles (my grandmother has never had a real tree), and most likely knock the tree over before emerging, victorious. He or she would be awarded with one of those big scratch tickets, while the rest of us losers would receive consolation prizes of smaller scratch tickets. The irony would be when one of the losers would end up winning more money off the ticket than the actual winner did. I have many a happy memory of going to the 7-11 on the day after Christmas before we headed home so my Dad could redeem my $1 or $2 winnings.

So, back to the present. (Do you see what I did there? Present? Christmas? I'm so clever) Now that we "kids" are older and there is a younger bunch of kids, we do two rounds. Brooke, Jay, and Joey get a turn of their own first, and they have embraced the tradition with true dedication and violence. Then, Broseph, Adam, Lucy, Shannon, and her girlfriend, Kathy (breaking the news of a lesbian in the family to my grandmother is a story for another time), and I get our turn. Luckily, the tree at my aunt and uncle's house is huge, so we can all hunt around without killing each other. Also fortunately, we're (somewhat) past the age of wrestling each other to find it, because if the tree got knocked down, it would probably kill someone, not to mention take out a window. For the record, I never win. Ever. Last year, my father committed the sacrilege of accidently breaking the pickle. We have managed to keep this a secret from my grandmother, and as far as I know, it's been replaced.

Now, for the climax of the evening. Joe has installed a sound system in the house that has speakers in literally every room of the first floor. Someone, though it remains a mystery to me exactly who, puts music on. But not just any music. Oh no. Almost any other music would be tolerable.

Barry White's Greatest Hits.

Every.
Fucking.
Year.

We'll all be sitting around, finishing off dessert, chatting and actually enjoying each other's company now that we're drunk enough to do so (or maybe that's just me), and suddenly the first notes of "Can't Get Enough Of Your Love" will start blasting. As if on cue, my mother and her sisters and Shannon and Kathy will scream with delight and jump into action. Someone hits the lights in the kitchen and pushes furniture out of the way, and they all start dancing like idiots while singing along. Adam and I have tried every year to hide, throw away, burn, destroy, et cetera the CD, but to no avail. Either they have an unlimited supply of copies, or the fucking thing is immortal. After they've made it through all ten (yes, there are ten Barry White songs that are considered hits, I was pretty shocked myself) of the godforsaken songs, someone throws on a mix CD of 70's disco songs, and they're off again.

The whole ordeal lasts for probably an hour. By this point, all the men have fled down to the basement to watch ESPN. I attempt to creep down to join them, but am usually spotted by one of the dancing women, who grab me and drag me into the dancing circle. After I get tossed and spun around a few times, I take advantage of one opportunity and spin myself right out of the circle, full-on sprint towards the basement door, and hurl myself down the stairs before they can catch me.

I should have mentioned first that my mother and her sisters have a freakish obsession with karaoke, which explains why any activity that involves singing slash dancing around drives them wild. For my aunt Lynne and her husband Larry's anniversary a few years ago, they rented out a room at some Chinese restaurant in the Lower East Side that had its own karaoke machine. It also had a $500 alcohol minimum. One of the high points of the evening involved my mother drunk dialing one of my friends and singing karaoke to her over the phone.

Exhibit A:




My dad and brother, who weren't able to make it to that blessed event, didn't believe me until I showed them that picture. If my mother knew that it was on the internet, she'd probably have my head on a platter, but the truth needs to come out, dammit!

Anyway, after the dancing horror, the night has pretty much hit its peak. Eventually, everyone starts organizing their belongings and heading out. My family heads back to my grandmother's in Fairfield, Connecticut to retire for the night. Luckily, the majority of ridiculousness has passed, but there's still plenty to come on Christmas day...


To be continued...