#asantaclause

So, it’s hard to come up with a best Christmas story, because when you move to Minnesota at a young age and your parents divorce shortly after, holidays are usually not that much fun or made into a big deal. Extended family is too far away and my dad wasn’t a great planner or a great cook and my mom rarely got the honor of having us on the big day. Sure, we could work the system and get a few smaller Christmas celebrations, but it generally was a chill affair. We rarely put on real clothes and once we figured out we could go to church at midnight and not have to wake up to join the one time a year churchgoers, we believed we had it made.   Snacks and movies and pie and presents were our big plans, and my dad is a master snacker (Currently, since he has no children at home, he snacks with the dogs, “Two crackers for me, one for Taz, one for Sid, one for Lucifer (except he has diabetes so maybe not) and one for Helios.” And this will continue on until he runs out of snacks).

But, one year does stand out.

It was 2003, but it could’ve been 1947, 1966, 1983, 1989, 1990, 1994, or 1998. Christmas tales tend to be timeless.  All my brother wanted for Christmas was a BB gun (we lived in the Midwest, this was a common request), my sister wanted an angel to get its wings, and I wanted a boy to knock on the door and declare his love for me via a series of awkward signs. Not because I wanted to be in actual love with him, but simply because I love flattery in all forms and I’m needy). Anyways, our chances for success were low because the way we went Christmas shopping involved our dad dropping us off at the mall with a handful of cash and a time limit. It’s hard to one stop shop all of those items, even in a Super Target.

Even though the odds were stacked against us for acquiring our perfect gifts, we still had hopes for a Christmas to remember. Usually the night before the big day, my dad will set us up with snacks on snacks on snacks, but this year he decided to go all out and make a meal fit for Thanksgiving. Which never made sense to me, but we went along with it. Unfortunately, he set the turkey completely on fire and had to use a fire extinguisher to prevent the house from burning down.  My brother tried (unsuccessfully) to make him feel better, “It’s ok Dad, the turkey just has a little hair on his chest!”

With no back up plan, we went to a diner and met a lovely older waitress named Judy and had a nice time. We returned home and all cuddled up in my sisters room to await the arrival of Santa. Sometime in the middle of the night we heard a great clatter and something that sounded like a fat man falling off the roof, but it had snowed a ton that year so we assumed it was just snow settling in for a long winter’s nap.  We didn’t realize it at the time, but our father was about to undergo a series of dramatic lifestyle changes, including a sudden love for hot chocolate, shaken not stirred. Obviously.

The next morning, we crept from our rooms to check what Santa had left us and much to our chagrin, everything had been stolen! Just kidding, we didn’t live in Whoville, we lived in Greenfield, and even though we had several dogs to choose from, we never affixed antlers to them and forced them to pull a sled. Mostly because they are all incredibly lazy. We knew we had bribed Santa successfully, because there were only crumbs of cookies left behind and the tops of carrots thoughtfully nibbled by reindeer. Or maybe the other way around, I’ve never thought to set up a camera to make sure. The tree was hardly visible behind the piles of presents and the stockings were packed with Christmas breakfast which consists of the four main food groups—candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup.  And we set out to get as sugared up as possible.

This, unfortunately, was one of those years we had to go to mass with the masses; however going to Christmas mass is not the worst time to go, even considering the influx of non-committed Catholics. There’s generally an awesome choir and a play that reenacts the birth of Jesus (although this year was a strange time for the play–our church had too many children who had dreams of being actors and so new parts were invented because “each child should have the opportunity to shine like the star that led the three kings to baby Jesus”. So this edition included a child dressed as an octopus among other sea creatures who had no business in Bethlehem). And if you’re really lucky, you can spend some time in the eaves with the pigeon lady; she seems scary, but she is actually a huge softy. I’ve heard if you give her a turtle dove ornament, you’ll be friends for life. Or maybe it’s only if you give her the “ST ENDS” segment of your best friends necklace. I’ve never met her, but I have noticed a soothing cooing during the part of church where you have to kneel uncomfortably and appear to be deep in thought. I think they call it praying, but I’m easily distracted. Finally it was over and we trundled back outside to go home and get our day of relaxation started. My brother had so many clothes on he couldn’t walk properly and fell over into a snowbank. We left him behind. My sister foolishly licked a metal pole and part of her tongue is still there with a plaque commemorating the event

On the way home we passed a road race of men in Santa suits led by a super cute “boy next door” type who looked worn out but on a mission to make it to the finish line or his home, whichever came first. We didn’t ask any questions.

We made it home, but just barely. We had just cozied up to the fire for a nap after a rousing game of pass the ball (pass the ball is a game where each person in your family sits in different corners of the living room and passes the ball to the next person. The ball is any sports ball you can find, soccer ball, basketball, lacrosse ball, beach ball, and you just keep passing until someone misses. It doesn’t seem hard, but that’s because you didn’t realize that when I listed the types of ball, I meant that we used all four at once. And you had to pass as quickly as possible so you could be ready to catch the next ball while also evading the dogs who were all desperate to steal the ball. It’s like a very elaborate game of monkey in the middle that you play on couches and only on commercial breaks) when suddenly we heard a terrible noise outside. An RV with what appeared to be every estranged member of our family pulled up expecting a warm and inviting home for Christmas dinner! We hadn’t planned for this at all! We didn’t have nearly enough sports balls or spots on sofas to include everyone in pass the ball!

Somehow, my father unveiled what can only be described as a Christmas miracle–a beautifully cooked turkey. I worried it was the same as the night before and was covered in potassium bicarbonate so I decided to become a vegetarian at the very moment. Fortunately, everyone else was also saved from ingesting copious amounts of fluorocarbons because as dad began to carve the turkey, it exploded in a way completely unprecedented and only seen before in ridiculous films. But this was no film, it was real life. Crazy Uncle Lewis told my sister that every time a turkey explodes, an angel gets its wings. Which actually makes sense, turkey wings are pretty sturdy and I would imagine them useful to carry around an angel. Then our cat (I didn’t even know we had a cat) chewed through one of the light strands and set himself and one of our prized pass the ball couches on fire.