Ho Fucking Ho

“Your father is teaching the child to swear,” Kevin whispered.

As I readied my camera, the feisty old man had incline his be-hatted head to my oldest nephew and said, “Just tell them ‘Ho fucking ho.’”

I wanted Norman Rockwell; I got Homer Simpson.

That pretty much epitomizes the Uppity Family Christmas. We met at my sister Yo’s house in Hoquiam for dinner on Christmas Eve, and it was everything a family holiday should be: food, fun, and expletives. Thought I’d share the highlights before I repress them.

Dinner was the usual holiday fare: turkey, stuffing, some kind of green bean casserole thing that looked ugly but tasted great — and of course, for Yo and me, cranberry sauce still in the shape of the can, a tradition straight out of “I’m Dreaming of a White Trash Christmas.” Ah, memories.

At some point during pre-meal preparations, someone commented on the table-cracking volume and inquired about the exceptional stamina of the cooks.

“Cooking isn’t work,” scoffed Michael.

“No,” agreed Dad. “It’s magic. Someone goes in the kitchen and waves a wand and performs secret rituals–”

“–and sprinkles pixie dust –” I added.

“–and POOF! A meal appears,” Dad concluded. At this, Kevin and Michael engaged in mutual eye-rolling, united in the knowledge that they are solely responsible for saving my dad and me from rickets and scurvy.

Dinner with the Bickersons is always full of such warm fuzzies. Never were two people more like a married couple than my Dad and Michael, two old friends spiritually inseparable yet no longer capable of civil conversations.

Just as we were sitting down to eat, Mr. & Mr. Bickerson attempted to speak to one another. This attempt at dialogue degenerated rapidly and concluded with something approximating “Blah blah blah FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK, goddamn it!”

“Who wants to say Grace?” asked my sister.

“Rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub! Yay God!” I recited quickly, hoping to distract my sister and her husband from booting either of the child-warping old coots out onto the sidewalk.

With this auspicious and typical exchange, the carnage had begun. We had about 24 hours worth of slaving over stoves and ovens demolished within 15 minutes (which is precisely why cooking has always seemed to me much ado about nearly nothing, but I digress).

As our stomachs digested mass quanties, we argued about opening presents. It being Eve rather than Day, it was eventually decided that we would all open just one gift. Still, a present is a present, and after weeks of greedy anticipation, it was fun to have a dress rehearsal. A deafening paper-tearing frenzy ensued, and in its aftermath it was clear that this year’s holiday soundtrack was “It’s an Action Figure Christmas, and in case you didn’t hear - Oh by golly have an action figure Christmas this year!”

Because it’s never too late to have a happy childhood, all the so-called “grown ups” received a personage intended to mirror something of their own personalities, the specifics of which I will leave up to my dear readers to infer. (Best guesses will appear in follow-up blog post.) Dad cradled his Edgar Allen Poe, Michael his Shakespeare, Yo her Moses, her husband Eric his Alexander the Great, and Kevin his Johnny Depp in a do-rag and eyeliner.

I wish I could say I received Jane Austen or Jesus, or even a Devil Ducky, but we likes our Gollum if we don’t thinks about it too much.

After dinner is the obligatory ritual known as Visiting. I believe this is why Dog created Christmas; Christ died on the cross to force families to speak to one another once a year. Or at least give it the old college try.

“Do you know why lecturing on Beowulf always reminds me of you?” asked my Dad.

“No but I think you’re going to tell me.”

To paraphrase the fireside chat that followed: When my father lectures his college students on Beowulf, he tells them that J. R. R. Tolkein used to explain to HIS students that Beowulf is a heroic tragedy, but that modern people do not know how to understand Beowulf because they have no comparison in literature.

“In other words,” my father said, “I tell them that Beowulf is like Tigger: there is only one.”

So now everyone knows my terrible secret: my top is made out of rubber, my bottom is made out of springs.

I was a very bouncy child (”fun fun fun fun fun!”) who by virtue of my year of birth only narrowly escaped the clutches of the current Ritalin-pushing public school system. Hence, the family comparison to Tigger of Winnie The Pooh legend, which was just fine with me as he was the only character with any chutzpah whatsoever.

Several times during the course of the evening, I tried to get one decent photo of Kevin and me together, but my sentimental intentions never had a chance. Some kind of photographic disorder runs amok in my family DNA: whenever any of my relatives so much as glimpse a camera, their fingers immediately and involuntarily form bunny ears and hurl themselves at the back of the subject’s head. And they wonder why I am child-free by choice.

I much prefer the photos taken by my 8 year old nephew. Paulie took several other photos that day, but this is the only guy in a Santa hat he would spend a pixel on. At least one person in the family knows what he’s doing.

Filed under All In The Family |