I love Christmas. Not because of the gift giving and what it should represent. I don’t really even care about Christmas Day. There is no day that I love more than Christmas Eve. Oh it is a fine tradition in my family, because Christmas Eve is the night that quite the cast of characters (some of which I have ZERO blood relation to) show up in their white-trash glory.
We like to say that we put the “fun” in dysfunctional. There are drug addicts, alcoholics, devil children, music (sometimes holiday inspired, sometimes not), dancing (dirty and otherwise), LOTS of drinking, and most importantly, lots of sweating. We all congregate at my aunt’s house and the shit show commences. There is an abundance of food and great beverages. The good times happen at the kid’s table, to which I will happily be regulated to for the rest of my life. Some people have been known to leave their spouses at the grownup table for a spot at the kid’s table, because that is where the fun is. Nobody is safe because we hate on everyone.
The things that I have seen and heard on Christmas Eve are astounding. I believe one year a gentleman actually removed his toupee and placed it on the grownup table (yet another reason I don’t ever want to sit there). There have been stories of vomit, tears, and witchcraft. We sing, some of us are forced to dance, and some of us drink so much that we actually want to dance. I don’t know if every family has traditions like ours, but they should.
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