I was reading an article recently about the paradox that social media has created. On the one hand, we wildly over-share every moment and detail of our lives in ways that would have been unthinkable, awkward and uncouth even ten or twenty years ago. At the same time we’ve developed a glossy white-washing effect that precludes actual, meaningful sharing and confidences. Often it seems as if there’s a competition to see who can have the most perfect- and of course, photogenic!- experiences. After all, who are we without all those likes and hearts and plus-ones to validate us.
So I will attempt to give you the unvarnished truth here: My family is full of maniacs. Every holiday makes me want to crawl out of my own skin, assume a new identity; jump a train, a ship, a midnight plane going anyyyywherrrre.
I was prepared with all the important elements! Tons of candy:
And cute decorations:
I even made those pretty dyed deviled eggs:
And baked chocolate chip cookies:
Back to my family. All they have to do is show up. I know, this is a high-pressure, demanding position to be in. I’m a slave-driver that way. Somehow they all managed to arrive two hours late. My rolls are unfluffing, my ham is looking scorched and Peter Cottontail is about to hippity-hop his way back down the bunny trail. The first to arrive are my sister and her penis-of-the-week. This one is a down-home country boy from Kentucky, so she has bizarrely taken to speaking with an over-exaggerated twang much like Spongebob’s friend Sandy the Squirrel. Well, fry my okra and call me pappy.
They arrive high as kites and stay for literally 20 minutes, just long enough to stuff their faces, lick their plates and make me feel like no amount of showering will ever make me clean again. Before he leaves he tells me by golly he’s just as full as a tick and about ready to pop. Of course, in my head, I’m thinking “yes, you certainly are full of something.”
Then one of the girl’s fathers comes over, uninvited, bearing Easter baskets for them all. This is the 40 year old meth addict skinhead who is in a hate metal band and covered with racist tattoos from his pointy head to his jackbooted feet. Keep in mind that he left the girls years ago and has actively avoided working so he won’t be forced to pay child support. This is the same guy who, on his daughter’s last birthday, called and said he would only come see her if she gave him $20 for gas money. But yes, SUPER RANDOM HI DADDY CANDY OMG.
He proceeds to tell us that he suddenly has money because he illegally sold the land out from under his aging, ill and mentally deteriorating parents and he’ll probably be in jail soon, happy Easter!
This is getting depressing, Here, have some more flowers:
That’s better. Anyway! Next to arrive were my brother, his wife, their 3 year old and their baby. For her own privacy, I will only refer to my sister-in-law as Pikachu Girl. This is because she calls her vagina her Pikachu; the reasoning being that girls have Pikachus and boys have Squirtles and when they get together, they Pokemon. Yes. Well that’s quirky, you might be saying to yourself, but how often could her vagina really come up in conversation. Trust me here: every. single. time.
She shows up dressed as Miley Cyrus. No I’m not kidding. I was afraid she was going to start licking things. Then she manages for the next 17902 hours to be as offensive as humanly possible. Okay, it MIGHT only have been two hours but sweet Jesus, it seemed longer.
She comes in and starts screeching not to offer her any food, she’s on a diet consisting only of black coffee, pizza and Skittles. She then proceeds to give her daughter a cup of water with a straw. A WHITE straw with a RED stripe. She then walks all around the house loudly informing each person. Her child must only drink from the WHITE STRAW WITH THE RED STRIPE. White straw. Reddddd stripe. That cup with the blue straw? That isn’t hers. It’s the white one. With the red stripe.
One of my nieces has a two year old daughter. She’s an absolute doll, and extremely smart for her age.
Pikachu Girl keeps implying that the two year old seems “a little s-l-o-w” to her. Now, if I was judging slowness I might wonder why HER 3 year old is only capable of screaming the words “NO I DON’T WANT TO” over and over again for the entire visit, or why a kid that much older has no interest in playing or sharing with other children. I might point out that the two year old was simply staring at the spectacle in slack-jawed amazement because she knows we don’t act this way. But I didn’t say that and I did restrain myself from slapping the bad dye job off of Pikachu Girl’s giant screech-owl head.
So. Candy. For the last two years I’ve just filled the table and counters with bunches of candy, then everyone gets a basket and takes what they like.
Pikachu Girl was having none of this because I’M ON A DIET. Well, the candy isn’t for you cupcake, it’s for your kids, but hey that’s cool. I have stuffed bunnies too. I have Easter bo— “What the eff is that?” “Oh! It’s just an Easter boo—” “101 Bible Stories?? What in the eff?” “Yeah those are just some Easter book—” “God doesn’t exist” “..Books that I won. You don’t have to take them if—” “That’s such B.S. We only believe in the Viking gods. Eff Christianity”
Sitting right in the kitchen of course is my cute little Mennonite mom, still in her pretty Easter dress from church. Honestly, I don’t give a crap what you believe. The books had lovely pictures in them and I thought the kids would like them. If you don’t want one, don’t take it. Or take it home and burn it. Don’t go out of your way to be offensive while claiming some religion that you know nothing about aside from your mistaken belief that it makes you sound like a bad-ass. It makes you sound like you watch too much tv, that’s all.
See this expression?
Yes. Two days later, we’re all still making this face. The moral of the story, I think, is that I need to leave the country for all future holidays. Or just invite some random homeless people who would probably be nicer and appreciate it more.