I love the holidays.
Each year, I inevitably discover one more irritating act to add to my thank-goodness-for-gun-purchasing-waiting-periods list.
Thanksgiving â€™82 realized I really donâ€™t like my perfectly nice three-syllable name shortened to a mono-syllabic half sneeze or made into a two syllable nursery rhyme a la â€œDawnie.â€ And I still don’t care whether or not I hurt “Grandma Hall’s” feelings when I poured my milk on her cranberry sauce after she called me that for the third time.
Christmas â€™84 discovered I hate when I get into trouble because someone ignored my advice.
I repeatedly warned my ten-year-old cousin Alex that our four and a half year-old cousin Jon was too little to ride our two wheeler, down suicide hill in the dark of night. (Oh my gosh, I used all the ‘to’ homonyms, correctly, in that sentence! Ms. Cattell would be so proud. )
Does he listen?
â€œCâ€™mon heâ€™s almost five. When I was five I could do the hill backwards on one wheel.â€ I believe was his cogent retort.
Of course, Jon ends up pinned beneath a now-dented Huffy, with two scraped knees and a gash in his forehead on Christmas Eve.
Alex and I then get grounded for the next three days.
(Contrast this scenario with others getting into trouble because they ignore my advice, which actually amuses me. Like when my best friend parks in front of a movie theater at 6:45, in a parking spot that isnâ€™t legal until 7 p.m., despite my protestations that we wait fifteen minutes. Of course, when we got of Jurassic Park two and a half hours later, the car had been towed by the lovely NYC Department of Transportation.)
Thanksgiving â€™89 my favorite radio station decided to play all â€œholiday songsâ€ starting on Thanksgiving day through Boxing Day. Realized I hate all â€œholiday songsâ€ (Notable exceptions are the Adam Sandler Hanukkah song (only the first one) and that Snoopy and the Red Baron song.)
Christmas â€™91 I had my first family dinner where all my aunts, cousins, momâ€™s close friends and their children were in attendance. Realization: I hate them all. Self-explanatory.
Christmas â€™93 my friends got their early acceptance letters and decided they wouldnâ€™t tell me because it would hurt my feelings since I hadnâ€™t gotten accepted yet. I found out and ever since I am highly annoyed when people try to protect me from their good news.
I hate pity. Besides, I got my acceptance letter the next day, so there.
New Yearâ€™s â€™95 stood in Times Square for four hours waiting for the ball to drop. Gave up at 11:31 p.m. due to frost-bite, exhaustion and hunger. It occurs to me quitting is a perfectly acceptable option and screw anyone who says otherwise.
New Yearâ€™s â€™00 decided to try parasailing with some small boat company in Negril, Jamaica.
As I was strapped into my harnass, all my days in tort liability/personal injury class came flooding back — causing immediate panic and non-stop screaming. Realized I do not like people telling me to â€˜calm downâ€™ when death is clearly imminent.
Christmas â€™03 — realized I hate people who tap my car window with their rings. Now, I donâ€™t know how else you are supposed to get the attention of a driver who has the windows rolled up and is loudly singing the Evita soundtrack— but there has got to be a better way than rapping a 5 pound gold ring in rapid succession on my newly washed, finally paid for driver-side window.