Christmas In Review

With the holidays and all, I know many of you in the blogosphere are taking some time off, not updating as often, etc. Never fear! Such is not the case here. I am already significantly bored at home. And after New Year's I'm having oral surgery and will be completely beached on the couch, not to mention on all sorts of drugs, which should make the posting a little more interesting.

Now that you all know what I was doing on my holidays, I can give a little review. For the record: it all went pretty much according to plan, more or less. The curling was especially entertaining, and was actually kind of fun for a little while. It actually wasn't too hard once I got the hang of it. But I see why it's referred to as a "gentleman's game"--there is little to no aerobic activity involved. Pictures will be following in due time.

In other news, I, completely unexpectedly, really cleaned up on Christmas this year. My mother forced a wishlist out of me because I'm apparently impossible to shop for (I disagree) and all my relatives were asking for one back in November, so I sent her a list with a bunch of things of which I expected to get one, maybe two. Basically all stuff that I didn't want to pay for myself. Nope! I got almost all of them. Among other things:


An iPod Touch



Canon PowerShot



Tory Burch flats



New brown riding boots



Gawker Guide to Conquering All Media (a joke from Adam...but I love it)



More of my favorite perfume...Ralph Lauren Blue


Along with a bunch of other books, CDs, gift certificates, $$$, etc. I was blown away. I wasn't expecting anything, and I felt like a kid getting all this stuff. Getting the camera AND the iPod AND the TB flats was far too much. But yay! Sometimes it's great having so many relatives.

So here's the question: now that I have a functioning, quality camera, as opposed to my shitty old one or the two shittier ones before it, I intend to use it as much as possible. And I can only have so many Facebook albums before I feel like a loser. So, I need a place to put them all...do I jump on the Flickr bandwagon? Or is there something better out there? Joining Flickr feels like such a cliche, but I hate how places like Kodak or Shutterfly require other people to sign in to view your photos. Suggestions?

Update: Approximate time at home that the Broseph and I actually got along <24 hours. Better than usual!

Ho, Ho, Ho: A Preview, Part III

Christmas Day is not nearly as eventful as Christmas Eve, unfortunately. In the morning, we exchange presents with my grandmother when we wake up and then get dressed and go to my aunt Lynne and uncle Larry's house, also in Fairfield. My aunt makes punch every year, which is everyone's favorite mostly because of the large quantities of alcohol in it. We have the standard hour or two of cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, most of which is spent keeping Larry's dog, Toby, from jumping on the coffee table to eat everything.

Once dinner rolls around and everyone is finally seated, every year we do Christmas Crackers. I'm pretty sure this is a British tradition, and I don't know where one would buy them, but every year somehow they end up on the table. In case you're not familiar, they look like this:



To crack them, you reach inside both ends, and yank on a string inside. In my family, we like to make things difficult. Everyone crosses their arms at the elbow and pulls one side of their own cracker and one side of the person next to them. If this sounds like it doesn't make any sense, it's because it doesn't. And usually there's about half that don't even make a good cracking sound, but just come apart with a pathetic little ripping sound. Inside, there is some kind of cheap plastic toy meant for a five year old but not safe for a five year old because it usually involves small parts. There also might be a little slip of paper with some nonsensical joke or riddle on it, which will then be debated over for the rest of the meal. And, of course, there are the tissue-paper crowns:



Notice how happy everyone looks.

That picture is from a few years ago, and I just realized that there are a lot of people missing from the table, but I don't know why. Anyway, we're required to wear the crowns for the entire meal. Yes, wearing these ridiculous tissue contraptions is mandatory. For what purpose? Your guess is as good as mine.

After another evening of copious amounts of food, we all retire back to the living room for a little while. My mom and aunts' cousins and their father will usually stop by for dessert, and after dessert we always play some sort of game like Catch Phrase, Pictionary, Cranium, etc. We split into two teams, and every year claim it will just be some friendly holiday competition, and every year it takes about five rounds until everyone is yelling at each other, throwing things across the room, and accusing everyone of cheating. Needless to say, the game ends pretty quickly, and usually my cousins, Broseph and I will escape to the den:



Which is usually where we remain in hiding until it's time to leave and go back to my grandmother's for the night, happy to have survived another year.

This past fall, my cousin (on my Dad's side) married her long-time boyfriend and moved into his house in Connecticut, which just so happens to be a town away from Fairfield. So, this year we're completing the Christmas Marathon by celebrating with my Dad's side of the family on the 26th, which consists of my cousin and her husband and my aunt and her husband, who are coming down from Newport, Rhode Island. I'm assuming this will become a tradition, since it kills two birds with one stone. In past years, there's always been a battle over when we celebrate with them, and sometimes it doesn't happen until mid-January. It's convenient that now we can get it out of the way (which is a horrible way of putting it) on the way home back to Boston. It's also a lot better than what we did last year, which was to go straight to Newport on the way home on the 26th and do it there. And maybe I shouldn't be complaining about having Christmas and getting presents for three straight days, but it is EXHAUSTING.

This year, not only are we simply exchanging gifts and eating a meal, but we're adding a little something more into the mix, which I fear will also become a tradition: the sport of curling.



I have never played this sport, never even watched it in the Olympics, have no idea what on earth I am getting myself into. My father was trying to explain it to me over dinner last night, but instead went off on a tangent reminiscing about playing it years ago at The Country Club*. I still have no idea what to expect, but I do know that I was wrong when I thought my family could not get any more WASPy.

So, stay tuned for what's sure to be some lovely stories from that holiday experience.

*The Country Club is actually the name of a club here in Massachusetts, which happens to be the oldest country club in the US. It is not, in fact, the club that family belongs to (we belong to Brae Burn Country Club), but is the one my grandparents belonged to. And in case you were wondering, yes, all the stereotypes are true. I.E, Caddyshack.

***************************

In other news: yes, I am home. I have spent my first full day here decorating the tree, driving around mall parking lots aimlessly, and hacking ice out of the gutters on the roof with my father. Woo suburbia! Also: the Broseph and I are getting along. A Christmas miracle!

Also--has anyone seen the Ciroc vodka commercial with P Diddy in it? Two things: first of all, the song that's playing in the video is Kanye West, which I find odd slash funny. Second, how the fuck does Ciroc become "the official vodka of New Year's Eve"? How does this get decided? Is there a vote? Does this mean if I make a commercial saying that Milwaukee's Best is the official beer of New Year's Eve, people will automatically drink it in large quantities despite the fact that it tastes like urine?

These are things that occupy my time when I don't have to go to work.

Form your own opinions:



Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you think of me in the next few days and get a little chuckle knowing you're in a better place.

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…