Good Lord. My phone is ringing off the hook with people calling about my date tonight. Please stop calling, you all are making me nervous.
I am calm.
Let�s talk about something else.
*~*
It almost Christmas and that makes me think of some funny times. I remember how painful it was, when my brother and I were little and our parents made us stand in our pajamas on the tippity-top of the stairs on our house, waiting for my Dad to load and prime his camera. He stood at the landing so he could capture us racing down to see what Santa had left us.
The one gift we received every year was new sleds. We each got one. Sometimes they were the roll-up plastic ones and sometimes they were the metal saucer ones. Boy, could we fly on those saucers! Airborn, when we hit a bump in the massive hill � or a jump we had hand packed for the thrill � I would open my eyes real wide as I flew, rosy-cheeked, through the air, and tried to avoid the massive pile-up of neighborhood boys waiting at the bottom.
Sometimes, my favorite Aunt, my �Jan Brady� aunt who died a couple of years back, would come with us. She must have been in her 50�s at that time, but she could fold up her lean frame and she would ride with us, screaming and laughing with the rest of the neighborhood kids � and helping us to pack the snow for bigger jumps. She showed us that we could use trays from the neighboring college cafeteria�s to fly down that hill, and she would wait until we all landed piled up at the bottom before she pelted us with snowballs as we laid in the snow catching our breath and making snowangels.
I miss her.
*~*
I remember the year I got face paint for Christmas and my mom painted my face like a Tiger, but really I looked more like Gene Simmons from KISS. All day I crawled around on the floor and �meowed� until it was time to wash it off and go see our relatives.
I think that was the same year I received the Easy Bake oven, which rocked. I still own it. It�s too treasured to give up.
*~*
Later years, I remember my parents getting confused and somehow buying for my brother the things that I wanted. He got the signature Benetton rugby. He got the Guess jeans. He got the brown leather �bomber� jacket.
The leather jacket, was a major issue. I coveted that jacket. I had earned it, with my 7 viewings of Top Gun while it was in the theaters. It should have been mine. And before I knew it, I freaked.
I stood, in all of my spoiled glory, among colorful wrappings and bows tied with love, and I shouted, �WHY DOES HE ALWAYS GET WHAT I WANT? I HATE IT! I HATE ALL OF YOU!� and I ran out the living room, scrambling up the stairs and when I reached the top, I screamed in all of my teenage diva glory, my piece de resistance:
�MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!�
*Gasp*
In this Irish-German Catholic household�where fish was eaten on Fridays and blessed palms placed behind paintings. And I, maybe all of 16, used the F-word.
You better believe I ran for my life down that length of hallway to my room, and locked AND barricaded my door to avoid the wrath of my Father. I stewed as I heard them downstairs, watching football or something and cheering. I plotted my escape from that house, this family, this town.
Later, I was told that I was to come out of my room and to arrive downstairs in the dining room dressed appropriately for dinner in 10 minutes.
Never one to apologize (what for, I�m always right) I sulked downstairs in my Christmas finery and sat in my designated place. I grumpily asked what we are having as my brother made faces at me from behind my parents.
Duck, my father said with a smile. Duck sucks, I replied. I hate duck.
Now, I would like to clarify right here � that I do, indeed, hate duck. It�s gross. But I now see, that perhaps, this was not the best time to break that down for my father. I think the year before, we had spent Christmas in London and New Year�s in Paris and the memory of me bitching during that whole trip was still on the family�s minds.
Suddenly, my Father, my compatriot, snapped. �YOU ARE A LITTLE BITCH!,� he thundered in his Christmas outfit and apron. �NOW YOU ARE GOING TO SIT DOWN IN THAT FUCKING CHAIR AND EAT THIS DUCK AND PRETEND THAT YOU LIKE IT, DAMNIT.�
And so I did. And my brother sat across from me silently laughing and making little faces at me but I didn�t dare stick my tongue out - I chewed that duck and almost choked swallowing it, but you better believe that I didn�t complain.
No spoke for the duration of the meal. I had succeeded in ruining Christmas for everyone. We haven�t had duck since.
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