Have you ever met my parents? They are why I am who I am, obviously. It is because of them I am a sarcastic asshole, but it is also lucky for them that I am a sarcastic asshole. Because if I hadn’t had a pretty good sense or irony at age three, it would not have been funny to receive a letter from Santa that said “Dear Lauren, Kitty almost killed me on the stairs and you’re not that good anyway so next year I’m probably not going to come.” It would have been strange to discover I was one of the few kids who left beers with her cookie plate for Santa. And it would have been traumatizing to ask what the smudge marks were on the kitchen window and be assured that “Santa was checking on you… and Kitty told him you were a huge pain in the ass.”
There is this huge, scary, empty lot near my apartment and walking by it the other day I started thinking about how much fun it would be to ask a kid why the lot was vacant. (They wouldn’t know.) A really good reply would be: “Because it’s haunted and the devil lives there!” Amirite? God I can’t wait to be a mom!
These stories are what Christmas is all about: stranger danger, tacky lights, and Santard. Enjoy!
Love,
Lauren
The Best Christmas Eve Party Ever
by Cheri Passell
Christmas 1982 was my second as Mrs. Brian Passell, and we were living in a high-rise in Denver with a beautiful balcony that gave us views of the Rockies and the city. All our furniture was either stuff we stole from my father-in-law’s home decorating store or things I bought used from Rent-a-Center. We were 25 and wanted to show off all this sweet stuff, so we decided to throw a Christmas Eve party.
We went all out, spending money we didn’t have on fancy seafood, bottles of wine, and stinky cheeses. I cleaned, cooked, and wrapped presents for days in advance. I felt like one badass Santa mother fucker, all full of Christmas cheer. Brian even let me drown our place in Christmas music, which I know annoyed the hell out of him.
I don’t know if we hadn’t been paying attention to the weather reports or if it really was an unpredicted storm, but when we woke up Christmas Eve morning it was snowing so hard that Brian thought he’d better drive me to work. I worked at a store that sold hand towels and soap and stuff. The kind of store that, come hell or high water, needed to be open for people’s bath mat needs. So although there was an alert going on for people not to leave their homes, Brain drove me through the mess. After an hour of nobody showing up, my boss told me to go home. Brian had to turn around and come back and get me, and by then the snow was piling up so high that I have no idea how our little Volkswagen Beetle made it through.
Brian delivered me back to the apartment and picked up our friend Terry. He’d agreed to feed his vacationing father’s dog and thought he’d better leave right away before things got worse. And they did. Snow was falling 2-3 inches an hour with winds at 50 mph. Brian and Terry should have been back within an hour, so when they were still gone four hours later, I started to panic. I was pretty sure that our party was canceled but I kept getting ready for it, plugging cloves into oranges and organizing canapes, not knowing what else to do with myself. Finally, five hours after leaving, Brian and Terry were home and encased in ice and snow—even their hair and eyebrows were frozen. I was relieved to see them, but then suddenly was confused to see a man, woman and two little girls walk into the apartment behind them. “Look who we brought home!” Brian exclaimed.
“Hello… you!” I said, trying to figure out if I should know these people.
I didn’t. They were Len and Kathy Miller and their two daughters from Evergreen. The first things I learned about The Millers was that a) they owned a jeep with tire chains and b) the road to their mountain home had been closed because of the snow. (The first thing they learned about me was that I was a woman unopposed to spending an ungodly amount of time shoving cloves into piles and piles oranges for the sake of festive, holiday decor.) Brian and Terry, Brian explained, had gotten stuck in the snow and had to abandon our car when they found the Millers. They agreed the Millers could spend the night at our place in exchange for a ride home.
I hurried everyone in and warmed them all up, and then we started our alternative Christmas Eve party, the one without our actual friends and family, but with Len and Kathy Miller and the little whats-her-name girls. I brought the food and wine out and everybody started to relax a little—everyone but the little girls. (They were too young to drink.) They just sat on the couch, wide-eyed, staring at Brian, Terry, and I like we might be axe murderers and thinking about how temporarily insane their parents must be for having agreed to all this. Surely they had been taught by parents and kindergarten teachers not to enter a stranger’s home, no matter what. I, personally, was more worried about Kathy’s comment that it had been a “pretty long time since the girls had wet the bed”. This was before I had a daughter of my own and that kind of shit freaked me out.
The next morning the girls expressed their natural concern that Santa Clause would not be able to deliver their gifts. We assured them that their presents would be waiting for them at home. I gave them the stockings that I’d made for Brian and Terry after taking out the fireworks, lotto tickets and cigarettes. (Which left them: Silly Putty.) Len and Kathy thanked us from the bottom of their hearts and I thanked them for rescuing my husband.
We got Christmas cards from the Millers for years and then we just lost touch with them. I’d like to think that the little whats-her-names remember us and the blizzard of ’82 fondly, but it’s more likely that if they think about it at all, it’s probably in reference to the Worst Christmas Ever. But hey—it was no picnic for us, either. One of the little whats-her-names did, indeed, wet the bed.
Brake for Santa
by Dave K.
My parents got married in 1975, and their first house was in Hampden, a neighborhood in north Baltimore that was known, at the time, for its population of insane cat-killing hillbillies. But, like many people of rural extraction, Hampdenites had an almost-religious appreciation for tacky lawn decorations, especially around Christmastime. Whole blocks of identical rowhouse lawns were done up with lights and statuary and hubcap Christmas trees, and it made such an impression on my parents that they started giving out “Hampden awards” to houses with the most tasteless, garish displays of holiday cheer.
This tradition continued when the family moved to North Carolina in 1986, and for my entire childhood, the winner was a tiny house near downtown Greensboro whose owner went the extra mile of dressing up as Santa and waving at cars as they passed by. He would have won anyway–even his nativity scene was illuminated neon, to say nothing of the motorized sleigh-and-reindeer on the roof and the giant Grinches on the porch–but the Santa suit clinched it.
That is, until I was 15 and he suddenly stopped doing it. I found out that he’d actually stepped into the street for the sake of his act, and had been hit by a bus. Can you imagine? What kind of asshole doesn’t brake for Santa? Some people have no class, I tell you what.
Santard
by Erica Oswick
I am the youngest of three kids and since I’m six and ten years younger than my brother and sister, it’s obvious I wasn’t quite planned. There are ups and downs to this. Sure, my siblings call me the “accidental” Oswick. But I did get to be the baby in the family, something that’s really paid off.
Present opening on Christmas morning, as you can imagine, was always a hodge podge at my house. My wish list always consisted of sweet kid stuff like Power Wheels and Barbie Dream Houses, and my brother and sister asked for cars and expensive jewelry. I think in order to keep the Christmas spirit alive for me in an environment where my siblings were kind of over the whole Christmas thing (they didn’t even believe in Santa!), my parents turned present opening into a scavenger hunt. This became my MOST favorite thing about Christmas and my brother and sisters’ most hated. I assumed at the time they were just jealous of me because I got to run around the yard in footie pajamas looking for clues and then rip through a giant trash bag with a big red bow to find a brand new Barbie Mansion complete with elevator. And that would have been totally understandable.
My age eight wish list consisted of: a unicycle, My Size Barbie and a new track suit with matching fanny pack. It was Christmas morning, I was awake at the crack of dawn, and man was I ready for this year’s scavenger hunt. I had tailored my list to Santa so many times and visited him in at least 3 different malls. As everyone was around the tree distributing gifts, my brother and sister noticed I could hardly contain myself anymore and suggested I opened a small box. Apparently they were in charge of setting up the scavenger hunt that year.
JACK POT! My first clue took me down to the mailbox, which directed me over to the neighbor’s shed, then under the deck and in the trunk of the car. I was getting close, I could feel it. The final clue sent me and my entire family to the small flat section of our roof only accessible from my brother’s window. SANTA, YOU CLEVER BASTARD! And there it was, a giant trash bag with three big red bows. Holy cow, I thought. It’s got to be My Size Barbie for sure, or maybe he got me a unicycle and stilts. (I had really wanted both but didn’t want to be too greedy).
I ripped open the trash bag to find my dad’s old weed wacker and a giant sign that said “TO: ERICA, FROM: SANTARD”. I started bawling, my parents stood there in shock, and my sister and brother were laughing uncontrollably. Someone was having a merry Christmas, indeed.
And that is the story of how Santard the Retarded Santa was born. And Santard has come back with more shitty scavenger hunt fun every year since. Now I’m 27, and I still have that old weed wacker. I’m also the proud owner of a beer belt that holds a 6 pack, hand made stilts, way too many troll dolls, questionable artwork, and Richard Simmons work out video tapes. I also have a lot of great stories and lots to look forward to. Santard will fly again!
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