Ah, the holidays. That special time of year that brings families together, even if you’d rather it didn’t. In honor of the season, I have a number of holiday stories to share, starting with one of my faves from Halloween past.

Our first tale takes place on Halloween in 2008. My group of girlfriends decided to get dressed up in costumes and head out to the Saddle Rack for some dancing and debauchery. We had a sexy kitten, sexy Indiana Jones, and I was sexy Dorothy from the classic, The Wizard of Oz. My skirt was way too short and my top was way too tight but I was 26 and could still pull it off.

We waited in line to get in and paid the ladies at the door the $20.00 cover. They must have gotten the memo because they were dressed up as the Tin Man, Scarecrow, Cowardly Lion, and The Wicked Witch of the West. I high fived them all and proceed to drink like it was the end of the world. One of the girls in the group, who shall remain nameless as to protect the innocent kindergarteners she now teaches, was dressed up as sexy Mrs. Claus. She was way worse off than the rest of us. After looking back through the pictures, you could almost thumb them to create a flip book of her drunken demise. First pic, bright, shiny eyes and glasses, raising a toast. Second pic, eyes glazed over as she looks far off and away from the camera lens, gripping her drink. Third pic, head down on her arms, looking worse for ware, as she still clung to the booze in her glass.

What happened next will go down as the most memorable moment I’ve ever had at the ‘Rack’ and could possibly be the best Saddle Rack story ever. Mrs. Claus was in need of a toilet. She made it but barely, heaving forth the little food and massive amounts of booze in her system. I don’t know when it became a thing but the women who take the money at the front door, the rest of my Oz friends, were required to follow any obviously inebriated women into the rest room to make sure they were ok. Some liability security for the establishment or what not.

So, I’m standing in the women’s restroom with the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Wicked Witch of the West. They were watching Mrs. Claus through the crack of the door of the bathroom stall. After she had evacuated her stomach, she needed to do the same for her bladder so was now sitting on the throne. After she was finished, she stood up and promptly slipped in her own emesis and fell in the stall. The next thing I knew, the Wicked Witch yelled for help and then DOVE under said toilet stall. All I could see was her little stripped legs sticking out looking very similarly to when the house fell on her sister. I could not believe my eyes and desperately looked around for someone I knew who could be witness to this hilarity. I rubbed my eyes and looked again! Black and white stocking legs kicking out from the chrome stall door. I whisper, “Please tell me someone else is seeing this! Someone else needs to see this!!” Unfortunately, I was the only witness to this joy. It’s a good thing I remember details like 2008 was yesterday.

Mrs. Claus was promptly asked to leave the premises and the whole thing put a bit of a damper on the evening but I came away with one of the greatest night out stories of my young(ish) life.

From Halloween, Thanksgiving is quick to follow and my family does not like to let me down for material. Each account tells the one before it to, “hold my beer”.

Over the years, our Thanksgiving traditions have ebbed and flowed with whatever the majority of my mom’s side of the family was up to. We started out going to my great grandparents’ home, where I was always forced to say prayer as the eldest (great) grandchild. The group was fairly small back then, only 15-20 people. Aunts, uncles, cousins, I can close my eyes and feel the anxiety of saying grace in front of everyone. As time went on and family grew, traditions changed.

This first of three epic T-day tales, takes place in South Lake Tahoe at my grandparents’ home. I was 20 and sitting at the peninsula in my grandmother’s kitchen. My mom, the infamous Lisa, my grandma and my Aunt Katie, were bustling around the kitchen, prepping the feast. The place smelled amazing and I was taking it all in.

My mom is the eldest one of three sisters; Aunt Katie, aforementioned, and Aunt Wanda. Now my Aunt Wanda is only 13 years my senior so by the time she was 18, I was 5 and my younger sister and I completely idolized her. She could do nothing wrong in my eyes. She painted our nails, let us watch MTV, gave us big bangs (it was the 80’s), etc. In my young head she was the epitome of cool. According to my mother, her youngest sister wasn’t (still isn’t) the sharpest tool in the shed. It took years for me to fully realize this myself but this story definitely gave me reason to pause.

This particular Thanksgiving, she had bought my little cousin, her nephew Duke, a remote control toy car. She had just put new batteries in and all she needed was a flat surface to test it out. It was snowing outside, most of the house is carpeted so she had the brilliant idea to try it out on the one large, uncarpeted surface in the house. The kitchen. On Thanksgiving.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happened next. Seconds after she started to drive the little car around the kitchen, my mom stepped on it and fell, very hard, to the floor. Almost as quickly as she fell, she popped up and was ready to fight her sister. I can close my eyes and see it. Mom pops up, starts screaming, grandma places herself between her eldest and youngest daughters as they were both screaming and trying to hit one another over grandma’s shoulders. It was quite the scene and I had a front row seat. I know we ate dinner after this but for the life of me I cannot recall how it went. After the excitement of women in their 30’s and 40’s almost exchanging fisticuffs, it’s no wonder my memory is a bit blurred about the rest of the evening.

My next story is a hard one. Both this story and the next involve prescription medication abuse. Fast forward to a few years later. We are all up in Tahoe again. This time my grandpa is in a bad way. He was addicted to OxyContin for his back pain and was up to 8 pills a day. He was in the restroom getting sick while the rest of the family tried to figure out what to do.

My mom has had a wall up around her when it comes to her emotions and my grandparents. It stems from some psychological abuse my grandfather put his family through. She is very reserved when it comes to grandpa. While all 30 of us were standing around trying to figure out what to do, my mom casually stated to call an ambulance and have him hauled away. Aunt Katie, who is way more empathetic than my mother is, was infuriated by my mother’s off the cuff and nonchalant quip that she tucked her hand into a fist, with her thumb jetting out, and thrust it into the small of my mom’s back. “Don’t you talk about my dad like that!!”, she said between gritted teeth. Mom popped around and said, “If you touch me again, I’m calling the cops!!”.

Everyone looked at each other and decided Thanksgiving was over. I’ve never in my lifetime seen a Thanksgiving dinner clear out as fast as this one did. People were grabbing coats as fast as they could. I was the second person out. My Uncle Jack, married to my Aunt Katie, didn’t even bother to put his jacket on before he flew out of the house.

Grandpa was ok that night, has since gotten his OxyContin intake under control, and will be turning 89 in 2020! He has more lives than a cat but all those survival stories I’ll save for another post.

Our last Turkey Day extravaganza story involved an actual ambulance! The year was 2014 and we were all gathering at my cousin’s home to celebrate the day and spend time with our immediate fam. All 35 of us. What can I say? We roll deep on Thanksgiving! I pull up to the house and there is an ambulance out front. My mind is racing! Did someone hurt themselves?? Many injuries occur on T-day… Is it for my Grandfather?? Totally, totally possible. Is it for my 90 year old Great, GREAT Aunt?? Maybe! I rush into the house to discover that it wasn’t there for either of them! It was for my cousin’s husband’s mother who was only in her 70’s. She decided it would be a good plan to take a handful of Ambien and other drugs, washed down by some booze. Needless to say, she spent the evening at the hospital chugging charcoal instead of turkey. This put a damper on the evening as my cousin, not her husband, escorted her MIL to the emergency room. I should also point out my cousin’s husband is a huge creeper. We always make sure we are carrying something when he arrives as to not to have to hug him. I think she married him as a last ditch attempt with no other options. I’d rather be single for eternity than marry someone who is that big of a creep. It’s a fun family dynamic at Thanksgiving.

On to Christmas! I don’t have many bad stories about this holiday. The one that comes to mind is the year I almost “ruined” Christmas for my fam. It was 1999 or 2000 and I was 17 or 18. We were still going to mass on Christmas Eve, per tradition. I decided that I was over this religious nonsense. Mind you, I went to Catholic school the majority of my life and was confirmed. Right as my row was to get up to go to communion, I decided that was the perfect moment to voice my new found atheism. I refused to get up for communion. The gaze from my mother’s eyes seared my soul. If laser beams could have come out of her eyes, she would have zapped me out of existence.

Everyone could see. What would they think or her?! What would they say!? The shame of it all was too much for my mother. When we got back to the house she was screaming at me. There would be no presents. Christmas was cancelled and I was to blame. How could I do that to her?! What was wrong with me?! She eventually calmed down but it was touch and go for a few hours. Now, in hindsight, if it didn’t mean anything to me, just do it and don’t be an asshole. Or one better, just cross your arms and get a blessing. This is coming from my more mellow and wizened 37 year old ass. I wish I had had slightly more tact at 17/18. We survived and I’m more respectful now.

I have to say my favorite, favorite Christmas was the one when I was 5. My little sister and I would always be up at the crack of dawn. We’d examine the sooty handprint Santa always left on the cookie plate in awe. We sneak in to mom and dad’s room to lift an eyelid, only to be told it was way too early and to go back to bed. We were always too excited to go back to sleep. We’d pull down our stockings and chatter about what we thought the big man in the red coat brought us this year. When mom and dad finally arose to join us in the living room, we’d tear open the packages with excitement and glee. This one particular Christmas, my uncle showed up with a video camera. It was 1987 so it was most definitely a rarity to see the giant over-the-shoulder monstrosity that was video cameras back then.

I was only 5 so I didn’t think too much of it until my parents said, “Hey… do you hear something?” We all stopped and listened, my uncle with the camera rolling. My dad said he heard something coming from the garage. We ran to the garage door in the back hallway. My dad went out first and came back with the most adorable English Springer Spaniel puppy we had ever seen! She was a gift from Santa and my sister and I were ecstatic!! Her name was Molly and we loved her so much.

That was, by far, the most memorable Christmas of my childhood.

As today is New Years Eve and this is my first post of 2019, I promise to try harder and to post more often. Sláinte to a new year, a new decade, and a fresh start. I wish you all love, health, and happiness for the coming year. Happy 2020!!