Unless you really love and thrive off of drama and terrible things happening to you so that you have a reason to bitch and moan all day long every day- you do what most sane people do- and that is to hope for the best of every situation. I don’t think this necessarily pins you as an optimist- because you’re not always EXPECTING the best, but damnit- you HOPE for it!
You want the day to go well, or maybe a souffle, or the toast not to burn, to drive without getting a ticket or some twatwaffle swerving into you or ramming your ass, play the lottery and win. Duh- you’re going to hope all of those things go in your favor. ‘Cause if not, you’re going to be eating nasty ass burnt toast with a neck brace (the human equivalent of ‘the cone of shame’) and dessert will be ruined.
Can you feel a ‘but’ coming? Because there’s one coming. It’s not Jennifer Lopez sized like some buts I’ve butted before, but it’s a moderately ample but that might throw off your pants size if you were trying to stuff it into jeans.
As great as everything going great is- am I the only one who finds things going perfectly… perfectly boring? Not in EVERY case, but a lot of times?
Let’s take this whole “sitting on Santa’s lap” business for instance. If you participate in this yearly spectacle- you put your kid in nice or festive clothes, make sure their faces aren’t covered in crusted milk or boogers, take them to see the fat man where they can sit on his lap and tell him what they are expecting him to bring (which is usually a hell of a lot more than you’re willing to buy and give credit to Stalker Santa), while you snap a buttload of pictures to show off to friends and family.
Our family has not really had that much luck in that department. What has happened every single year without fail is that one of the kids will mistake Santa for the devil incarnate (and we have lovingly nicknamed this horrifying incarnation Satan Claws) and absolutely lose their fucking shit. We’re talking red-faced crazy ass “there’s a man with a cleaver covered in blood chasing me up a flight of stairs” kind of shit losing. It’s horrifying, and I’m not talking about for the kids- but for us ADULTS.
You spend all that time waiting in line with the kids who seem totally enthralled by the scenery and decorations- happy as clams, totally excited to see Santa and list their demands. Then comes our turn, and we make the walk from the candy cane archway down the green carpet toward a giant green plushy seat and perched upon it, a jolly old elf (seriously, Santa is supposed to be an ELF? Why is he so huge? Where are his pointy ears? I call bullshit)- all is well and fine until reality sets in.
I’m actually going to have to SIT on this man’s lap. This man that I don’t know. This man with a long white freakish beard. And red suit. And black boots. And everyone is going to be watching me.
That is when all hell breaks loose. EVERY single year. And every single year we bring home pictures like this:
|GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME SATAN CLAWS!|
|IT’S BEHIND ME!!!! DEAR GOD, NO!
You see, Holden is missing from the bottom picture because of the horrors of the previous year, he refused to even consider going near the Elvaan Dark Lord.
And as awful as both of those pictures are…. they are also awesome. I mean, here I am, writing about those experiences in vivid detail. Even though we really want our kids to sit on Santa’s lap and smile- aren’t the times where they freak the fuck out and scream so loud and so hard that you can see their tonsils the times you remember?
Any time my family brings up sitting on Santa’s lap now, we don’t refer to the one year no one cried- we refer to these two years, and we laugh. A lot.
At family gatherings growing up, there were always a LOT of stories told. The one I remember the most is the story of how we were all at a piece of shit rented beach house one summer (My Mom’s doing, naturally). Everyone was gone, out at the beach having fun- and they left little baby me with my Uncle Wayne. Somehow, my crazy ass managed to get myself stuck between the crib and the wall and any time he would come near me (much like my kids reaction to Satan.. I mean SANTA) I would scream. And let me tell you, I had some lungs. I stayed stuck between that crib and that wall for hours because he was too afraid to get anywhere near me.
Obviously- at the time- this was NOT fun to be living through, but years later when you tell the story with everyone gathered around, and you laugh SO hard that you can’t breathe? Those are my favorite kinds of memories. It just so happens that they are made during disasters.
What the hell kind of story am I going to tell with a picture like this:
The warm and fuzzy kind? Geez. What’s the fun in that??
Best compliment you can give me is to tell me you hope your future kids turn out like mine. I mean, you're lying, but it's a nice compliment
Where you should be spending your Saturday night twitch.tv/holdinholden
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