Tube tops and the Nativity.
And so, we conclude yet another Christmas Holiday with my family, complete with all the ensuing drama that comes with shopping like an idiot, encountering relatives and other people you don't see all year who routinely question your sexuality and/or your ability to produce viable grandchildren, and shoveling food into your face until you've gotten way past critical mass.
Makes me long for the days of yore when I had nothing to do but watch Alias DVDs and play online games.
APO members who play online poker together...
Or, I can watch them playing online games on the Alias DVDs. Whatever. My collection still lacks seasons 4 and 5, so I'm still S.O.L. anyway. Sigh.
Anyway, back to the holiday and the dreaded Holiday Party from Hell.
Every year, my next door neighbors throw this shindig. This family is originally from Canada, and moved down here permanently the same year we did. Coincidentally, the husband is the brother of the woman we bought our house from, who, not so coincidentally, is a classmate of my mother's from nursing school in the Philippines. Every time someone explains this scenario, I want to blurt out, "What does that make us? Absolutely nothing!"
Me, left, with my neighbor at this year's party.
Okay, I'm back.
So, I have traditionally hated going to this thing. Mostly, because their kids went to Florida State, and for every year during my college and grad school careers, I got nothing but shit from their kids about Florida, whether we beat them that year or not. During the ensuing years, I got less shit about going to Florida from the kids and more shit from the elders about whether or not I was happy with my job, and when I was going to give my parents grandchildren. This last one they spring alternately on my brother or me, whoever they happen to catch first.
This year, after my father pulled his infamous "disappear into the mist/back to our house to watch football" trick (that bugger is amazing; I don't know how he does it and stays under the radar), I sensed the interrogation would start soon after all the baby carrying and coddling that was going on. After just about having my fill of the holiday spirit, I bugged out of there graciously.
I would later find out that soon after my exit, they got to my brother, who was given the option of either getting together with some random girl there who I remember as annoying as shit when we were in high school together, or with the single mom in the tube top and jeans who brought her kid, who looked to be about twenty-two years old. The Old Sideshow politely declined both tantalizing offers.
Christ, we have to get better neighbors.
