Since I had to work on Christmas Eve and at 8am the day after Christmas, my parents drove up here while I picked my brother up at the airport. Aunt Crazy Pills, Uncle Fighting Illini and Masturbating Cousin drove down to Cheerleading Cousin’s house, so my family stayed at their house for the holidays.
We dubbed ourselves “The Christmas Squatters”.
Since my mom just had gallbladder surgery, it hurt her to even laugh. Too bad we’re all assholes to each other.
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My brother became obsessed with playing Lego Indiana Jones on Masturbating Cousin’s Xbox. My mom and I watched him play and helped him figure things out. My dad was pissed because he wanted to watch the football game.
“I thought there were no video games in the living room.”
“That’s the rule my dad wanted them to enforce,” my mom told him.
“Go play your games upstairs!” my dad yelled at my brother.
“No, this is Freaky Friday. Masturbating Cousin and I traded places. I get to play my games wherever I want, with no regard for anyone else. And I’m going to sleep all day,” my brother told him.
Since we outnumbered him, all my dad could say was, “It’s Thursday, not Friday.”
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My aunt left sugar cookie dough for us to make cookies with. I talked my brother into doing it, although he claimed he couldn’t remember how to use a rolling pin.
“You just spread flour out on the counter and then put flour on the pin,” I told him.
“Like this?” He sprinkled flour on it.
“No! You spread it all around. Like you’re . . .massaging it,” my mom told him while acting out a hand job and laughing like a pervy old lady.
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My mom, brother and I had an allergic reaction to the real Christmas tree in the house, so my dad moved it (and all their presents) into another room and barricaded the door with a blanket so no tree spores/mold could get out. We didn’t know how to explain to my aunt and uncle what we did to the tree. Our possible stories:
- Their dog got rabies and tore up the tree and presents. Dad had to take him out in the back and shoot him Old Yeller-Style.
- We gave their tree and presents to a homeless family, who are now living in the garage.
- A squirrel was living in the tree. He knocked it down trying to get out and the tree caught on fire and burned up everything.
- The Grinch showed up and stole Christmas.
Our only real responsibility all weekend, was to watch my aunt and uncle’s dog, Bailey. I’ve dog-sat him numerous times, and have given him his last name of “Bailerton”.
Sleep deprivation led me to write/make up many songs.
One example: (to the tune of Silver Bells)
“Bailey Bailerton, Bailey Bailerton, we’re your new family,
We’ve come to stay at your house this Christmas.
We ate all your food, we drank all your booze,
And we moved your Christmas tree,
but we gave all your presents to the homeless . . .”
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After I got out of work on Christmas Eve, my mom called me.
“Where are you? Dinner’s going to be ready in 15 minutes!”
“I gave my co-worker a ride home. She was gonna have to walk in the dark and it’s raining. And she’s partially deaf, so I was afraid she would get hit by a car or something.”
“Is she going to be alone this Christmas? You should have invited her over here to spend Christmas with us!”
“She’s with her boyfriend. Plus, she’s a complete stranger, Mom. I’m not going to invite her over. Where did that come from?”
“I don’t care. It’s not my house. We should have a kegger party. You invite all the deaf people you know.”
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My mom had to sleep on the living room couch so she could prop herself up. We teased her about faking surgery, just so she could sleep downstairs and wait for Santa.
Christmas Eve night, we forced her to take her Vicodin, so she fell asleep on the couch at 9pm. My dad and brother went to bed so the Santa duties fell to me.
I tiptoed around trying not to wake up my mother. I failed.
“Is that you, Santa? I’ve been a very good girl!” my mom called out in a little girl voice.
“Go back to sleep, you crazy lady,” I laughed at her.
She quieted down, but when I went back upstairs, she called out, “Good night! I love you, Santa! I love my presents, Santa!”
In the end, my mom felt bad that I knew what was in the stockings, so she put a huge rubberbanded roll (Drug Dealer-style) of $50 bills in our stockings before we woke up.
My dad didn’t get any money, but received a garden gnome. He was excited because they’re leaving on a trip next week and I think he’s going to do a Travelocity type deal with him.
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Every year, I end up with a ridiculous gift. Probably because I’m the biggest asshole. All of this was in one box.
- Plain white socks.
- A used, talking Mr. Potato Head, which was being sold at the garage sale this summer. It was sitting on the cashier’s table and kept yelling at people, annoying the shit out of me until I tried to throw him in the creek. He was rescued and given to me as a Christmas present, to torment me for the rest of the year.
- My High School diploma, which I couldn’t find anywhere.
- My mortarboard, which I wore while fixing Christmas breakfast.
- a $50 bill, making it obvious this package was put together by my father, since he about crapped his pants when he saw our “Drug Dealing Money”
Your parents are hilarious.
Ahhhh, I wish your parents were my parents. Tell me somethign screwed up about the so I’m not so jealous.
How about . . .they claimed me on their taxes and “did my taxes for me” until I was 23, despite the fact they weren’t actually supporting me financially. Meaning, I couldn’t even apply for grants because they made too much money, and I had to take out students loans in my name, that I wouldn’t have had to otherwise.
I mean, they’ve given me more money post-age-18 than most people get from their parents, but it bothers me that they didn’t tell me what they were doing. I just went along with it “because they’re my parents”. I didn’t realize that it was kind of shady and fucked up, until I worked for a tax accountant when I was 23.