It’s that time of year for holiday cheer and traditions that you can pass down for generations to come, Your uncle ranting against the “Mexicans” – to him everyone that isn’t white bread American, is a “Mexican” including white Europeans with accents. So charming, Your middle aged aunt trying desperately to keep up her youth and competing with your cousin, her daughter. “Yes, these are new this year! 36Ds! Aren’t they great! You can touch them later.” And your grandfather trying to drunken teach you how to Lindy hop despite the fact that he did that last year, and the year before and the year before that. And, really, Lindy hop? Why not something a little cooler, like West Coast swing? All of this while you are trying to keep down some overcooked ham and mac and cheese made with orange cheddar. Traditions are great! Didn’t this all happen last year?
This year, I am cultivating a few new holiday traditions of my own. I should start now to make sure that they are fully solidified before I use them to torture my future children. First, I am just going to other peoples families for the next few years. There is nothing like watching some one else’s parents faces sink in disappointment. Schadenfreudelicious! I can study them, so when the time comes, I can replicate that deep, deep wrinkle in the forehead that says, “I can’t believe we paid for college for this” without saying a single word.
Second, I am working on cultivating a sense of classism. Racism isn’t going to cool that much longer, but it’s always going to be ok to hate on the poor! My idea of charity is going to be making sure that no child goes with out a set of ALF pogs this holiday season.
Lastly, I’m truly cultivating my high functioning alcoholism. If there’s anything that I have learned all these years of knocked over trees and stupid wet Christmas tea towel fights, is that a controlled drunk is the best kind. You get to walk out of there with a serious buzz and your sense of superiority intact. Even if your ass is wet from getting slapped with a reindeer towel.
Posted in comic, written
Tagged comic, truth
This is me, eating our first real meal in 21 hours after taking an 11 hour bus ride and then a 1 and a half hour van ride to an island off the coast of Maine. First bite, pretty much awesome. We start it off right with fried whole belly clams. A food that makes me nostalgic for days spent driving to the coast of Connecticut with my mom so that she could go to this specific fish shack and gorge on briny, crispy, delightful bivalves. Whole belly, as in the whole damn clam, none of this clam strip nonsense the rest of the country seems to think friend clams are. I am looking right at you New York, with your snotty food culture. You have an artisinal mayonnaise store, but you can’t figure out how to properly fry a clam? New England has point one on that.
The main steward of our northbound trek was one Mr. Galen Owens, a bus driver of such old timey charm and manners, if there were a movie version of him, they would have to reanimate Jimmy Sterwart to play him. His announcements on the bus where both authoritative and apologetic. “These aren’t my rules, I just have to enforce them.” He had a way of presenting them, that if you broke the rules, you kind of felt like you were disappointing your dad all over again. At one stop, he dropped off Tupperware containers of cake to two handsome New England ladies. One every port. Galen, you player.
Then we made it to Bangor. The Greyhound bus depot is at the back of a gas station. We got on to our van driven by a lovely ex-school teacher, Helena. She made sure that we knew, again and again that we were going to biking heaven, Hear that biking heaven!
So far Maine, you’ve given us a little strange, but I am waiting for full on Stephen King weird. And I kind of hope that Galen Owens has our route back to Boston.
I recently got the lady version of wet dream inducing porn in the mail, the new Anthropolgie catalog. It’s made me reflect on that fact that I am just a ukelele away from precious territory. I mean, the last time that I got broken up with, it was in front of skeeball bar by a wearer of suspenders (we are friends still). I got on my kelly green 1960′s Schwinn and rode home. This time the catalog made me reflect on what a silly, silly lady I am, rather than making me want to buy a $250 dress that will make it look like I effortlessly baked a cake while pulling water from a well, all never smudging my tangerine lipstick. That lip color is called “Color me Bad”.
Sometimes, I so badly want to be that woman who has a story for every lacy, wisp, dream of a scarf she owns. “Oh, that. I got that with Eduardo in Morrocco. It’s priceless to me. Doesn’t it exude the allure of the orient.” or “This? It’s bespoke! Clothes just fit better when hand stitched with the hopes of small Asian children”
All my clothing origin stories are, “My mom got that me for at Kohl’s” or “That came from the mall Salvation Army in my hometown which is now a parking lot” or “I got that t-shirt for passing AP Physics senior year, of high school.” Yes, the mall in my hometown had a Salvation Army Thrift Store, an Ocean State Job Lot and a Sears Outlet. Don’t tell me they don’t have white trash in Connecticut.
The kind of woman that is admired from a far, but never approached except by curious exotic looking children. Who wears red lipstick to the tundra. Whose change jar is riddle with Euros, Indonesian dollars and there’s nary a quarter in there to do laundry. You’d describe her as “so worldly” but you’d really mean annoying at dinner parties.
I don’t own nor do I have any intention of getting a ukelele. Maybe a fancy ladybug shaped bike bell. Thankfully, I’m more Zooey Deschanel’s drunk, crasser cousin. Her farts probably sound like a kazoo, mine just sound like tearing paper.