I wrote this entry originally 2 years ago. I still find it relevant after a grueling 2 full days around my family for the holidays. Happy Christmas, Yoko.
I'm not even gonna lie: I love, love, love Christmas. I know that Jesus is the reason for the season and if you ain't believin', you're committin' treason, but I really could give a shit about Jesus. And it's not even the presents (yes it is). I just love being reminded of childhood and having a perfectly valid excuse to act like a child again. It is true, I have a Michael Jackson-level fascination with childhood and youth. Not a fascination with Jesus Juice, as my earlier sentiments could indicate.
There's plenty of things to hate about Christmas: the horrible red/green color combination, the tackiness of regifting, umm, oh yeah and the tackiness of everything, the shopping stress, the fact that people seem to get off on associating stress with a perfectly peaceful and happy holiday, hanging out with your family, the WAR ON CHRISTMAS, FOX News debates, how much weight you're gonna gain and the horrible sweaters you'll be given to cover said weight, and so on and so forth, and so on, and so on, and so forth. And so on.
When I read my friends' Facebook statuses (stati?) and Twats this time of year, I see an abundance of bitching about family. And then I really want to join them on their social-networking status update whine-a-thon. And it's easy for me to, because my family makes it easy for me.
See, my dad is like the Christmas Nazi. He's like the Gestapo, checking up on you to make sure you have enough Christmas cheer and killing you if you don't. My dad becomes the biggest child in the entire family this time of year. Except, instead of being one of the cute, excited kids who claps their hands together really quickly and their eyes are all aglow and crosseyed with innocence and joy as a beaming orb of angelic light lingers around their head, he's the bossy playground brat who pouts and throws things and shoves sand down your throat when he doesn't get his way. "His way" being everybody as excited as he is about everything. My dad lays on the Christmas guilt so much you'd think he was Catholic.
That's the thing, too - we're not even a religious family. In fact, we're quite sacrilegious. Yet, Gestapo Claus admonishes us whenever we replace the "Christ" with "X" in "Christmas." SS Officer Elf will give you the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog face one could imagine if you refuse to eat as many Christmas cookies as he does. If you forget to turn on the Christmas tree lights when you wake up in the morning, you will get yelled at by Father Hitler. I think it may be wrong that I'm incorporating Holocaust references into an entry about Christmas, so I'm just gonna stop.
I know, I complain about my dad an awful lot. And, in many ways, I'm probably exactly like him. Which was by far the most difficult thing I've ever typed. Only the good parts, okay? Don't think I'm so much of a spoiled brat that I don't understand where all of his neuroses come from: love and concern. I get that. And I guess, what I'm trying to say, is that in a weird, sick, codependent way, I think I love his craziness.
Without him to hype Christmas to the point where it's nearly unbearable, I probably wouldn't see the importance in spending time with my family. Without him to compete with to give the best gifts, I wouldn't spend time every year actually trying to get to know my siblings and their interests more so that I can win the unofficial, unspoken gift-giving championship. Without him to play, on repeat, the same four Christmas albums, I wouldn't be remembering, on repeat, memories from Christmas past. Without him to lay on the guilt about not being cheerful enough, I wouldn't be cheerful enough. Somehow, his relentless unacceptance of negativity works.
When Dad isn't leading his one-man Christmas parade, there's a lot of time to sit and think. As always, I think about the future and what it will look like. When I find and create a family of my own, what will Christmas be? As much as I want to get away from them sometimes, I can't imagine this time of year without my crazy family. And I can't imagine anyone else who wasn't a part of us from the beginning to understand the madness of it all - let alone grow to appreciate and love it enough to want to spend it with us. I guess the same can be said of me.
I wonder why some people are easier to love than others. I imagine that I'm not an easy person to love, because there's so much that you get in the package that you just didn't sign up for in the beginning - such as my family, the random, small patch of hair that's on my back, the fact that I may write about you on my blog, that I'd rather see a movie alone than with you, my intense food snobbery and pickiness, my strange obsession with Lady GaGa (really, though, totes luvable!), and the list continues... Obviously, we don't sign up for and choose our family. Unless you're a foster kid, in which case you've got it made in heaven (no? Am I misunderstanding the concept of foster care?) And obviously, there's a lot of people who have already said that you only get one family and you should love them, crazies and all. So, I'm not going to add to that cliche. Instead, I'll find another cliche.
I think this is the year that I've officially given up on trying to be the black, er, rainbow, sheep of my family. I've spent a lot of time and energy disassociating myself from them, taking extra care with a big-ass black marker the size of a baseball bat to draw lines and distinctions between us. What I've discovered is that yes, the differences are there when you look for them. Yes, you may find a goldmine of differences that set you apart from that group of carnies you belong to. And the more time you spend bathing in those differences and relishing in the negativity of hating your family, the more you will hate them. I'm not saying that if you focus on loving your family and the shitty things they do to make it difficult to love them, that you'll love them through the divine power of a Christmas miracle. I'm saying do what you want, I ain't gonna be mad at ya.
But what I've discovered is that I have a dad who gives love in any way he can without actually saying it. He may choose the most annoying ways to express this love, but the fact is that he loves me. My father didn't raise me to appreciate that this is Jesus' birthday and that he died for my sins and how full of sin I am (which, let's be real, I'm an easy target). He raised me to believe that this holiday is about the joy of giving and loving your family. So, rather than training for the eye-rolling Olympics and perfecting the art of ignoring every grating thing Dad does, I'm going to celebrate Christmas tackiness by regifting that love right back to him.
I'm not even gonna lie: I love, love, love Christmas. I know that Jesus is the reason for the season and if you ain't believin', you're committin' treason, but I really could give a shit about Jesus. And it's not even the presents (yes it is). I just love being reminded of childhood and having a perfectly valid excuse to act like a child again. It is true, I have a Michael Jackson-level fascination with childhood and youth. Not a fascination with Jesus Juice, as my earlier sentiments could indicate.
There's plenty of things to hate about Christmas: the horrible red/green color combination, the tackiness of regifting, umm, oh yeah and the tackiness of everything, the shopping stress, the fact that people seem to get off on associating stress with a perfectly peaceful and happy holiday, hanging out with your family, the WAR ON CHRISTMAS, FOX News debates, how much weight you're gonna gain and the horrible sweaters you'll be given to cover said weight, and so on and so forth, and so on, and so on, and so forth. And so on.
When I read my friends' Facebook statuses (stati?) and Twats this time of year, I see an abundance of bitching about family. And then I really want to join them on their social-networking status update whine-a-thon. And it's easy for me to, because my family makes it easy for me.
See, my dad is like the Christmas Nazi. He's like the Gestapo, checking up on you to make sure you have enough Christmas cheer and killing you if you don't. My dad becomes the biggest child in the entire family this time of year. Except, instead of being one of the cute, excited kids who claps their hands together really quickly and their eyes are all aglow and crosseyed with innocence and joy as a beaming orb of angelic light lingers around their head, he's the bossy playground brat who pouts and throws things and shoves sand down your throat when he doesn't get his way. "His way" being everybody as excited as he is about everything. My dad lays on the Christmas guilt so much you'd think he was Catholic.
That's the thing, too - we're not even a religious family. In fact, we're quite sacrilegious. Yet, Gestapo Claus admonishes us whenever we replace the "Christ" with "X" in "Christmas." SS Officer Elf will give you the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog face one could imagine if you refuse to eat as many Christmas cookies as he does. If you forget to turn on the Christmas tree lights when you wake up in the morning, you will get yelled at by Father Hitler. I think it may be wrong that I'm incorporating Holocaust references into an entry about Christmas, so I'm just gonna stop.
I know, I complain about my dad an awful lot. And, in many ways, I'm probably exactly like him. Which was by far the most difficult thing I've ever typed. Only the good parts, okay? Don't think I'm so much of a spoiled brat that I don't understand where all of his neuroses come from: love and concern. I get that. And I guess, what I'm trying to say, is that in a weird, sick, codependent way, I think I love his craziness.
Without him to hype Christmas to the point where it's nearly unbearable, I probably wouldn't see the importance in spending time with my family. Without him to compete with to give the best gifts, I wouldn't spend time every year actually trying to get to know my siblings and their interests more so that I can win the unofficial, unspoken gift-giving championship. Without him to play, on repeat, the same four Christmas albums, I wouldn't be remembering, on repeat, memories from Christmas past. Without him to lay on the guilt about not being cheerful enough, I wouldn't be cheerful enough. Somehow, his relentless unacceptance of negativity works.
When Dad isn't leading his one-man Christmas parade, there's a lot of time to sit and think. As always, I think about the future and what it will look like. When I find and create a family of my own, what will Christmas be? As much as I want to get away from them sometimes, I can't imagine this time of year without my crazy family. And I can't imagine anyone else who wasn't a part of us from the beginning to understand the madness of it all - let alone grow to appreciate and love it enough to want to spend it with us. I guess the same can be said of me.
I wonder why some people are easier to love than others. I imagine that I'm not an easy person to love, because there's so much that you get in the package that you just didn't sign up for in the beginning - such as my family, the random, small patch of hair that's on my back, the fact that I may write about you on my blog, that I'd rather see a movie alone than with you, my intense food snobbery and pickiness, my strange obsession with Lady GaGa (really, though, totes luvable!), and the list continues... Obviously, we don't sign up for and choose our family. Unless you're a foster kid, in which case you've got it made in heaven (no? Am I misunderstanding the concept of foster care?) And obviously, there's a lot of people who have already said that you only get one family and you should love them, crazies and all. So, I'm not going to add to that cliche. Instead, I'll find another cliche.
I think this is the year that I've officially given up on trying to be the black, er, rainbow, sheep of my family. I've spent a lot of time and energy disassociating myself from them, taking extra care with a big-ass black marker the size of a baseball bat to draw lines and distinctions between us. What I've discovered is that yes, the differences are there when you look for them. Yes, you may find a goldmine of differences that set you apart from that group of carnies you belong to. And the more time you spend bathing in those differences and relishing in the negativity of hating your family, the more you will hate them. I'm not saying that if you focus on loving your family and the shitty things they do to make it difficult to love them, that you'll love them through the divine power of a Christmas miracle. I'm saying do what you want, I ain't gonna be mad at ya.
But what I've discovered is that I have a dad who gives love in any way he can without actually saying it. He may choose the most annoying ways to express this love, but the fact is that he loves me. My father didn't raise me to appreciate that this is Jesus' birthday and that he died for my sins and how full of sin I am (which, let's be real, I'm an easy target). He raised me to believe that this holiday is about the joy of giving and loving your family. So, rather than training for the eye-rolling Olympics and perfecting the art of ignoring every grating thing Dad does, I'm going to celebrate Christmas tackiness by regifting that love right back to him.
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