Christmas

Well, so, it happened. It was Christmas. And now it's the day after Christmas. (And this is a really rambly post.) And, for some reason, Christmas felt less Christmassy than usual this year. I don't know why. But Christmas Eve did not feel like Christmas Eve. It felt like some random Saturday on which we suddenly became Catholic and went to anticipatory mass.
When I was little, Christmas Eve was a Big Deal. We would travel across town to Shadyville East Side, near the ocean. I can still remember how to get there, I think. We went to Papa's house, my some-time alcoholic Great-grandfather who could reduce people to tears with his acid tongue until the day he died. I always got a slightly sinking feeling when we walked up the broken-down drive way to the house. But in we went. Gran-gran sat in her rocker, when I was very young, before she died, and Papa sat in his threadbear Easy-chair. One was always required to file in front of them and kiss them appropriately, and, how I hated that part! Papa always smelled of dip, and to kiss him you had to brush past his chewed tobacco-filled spitoon, past his stained lips, to his cheek. His hair was thin, but still brownish. And, oooooh, he was mean. Better watch yourself, better not get on the wrong side of his politics or racism!, or he would yell and scream and cuss until you cried. He would chew you to bits, just like his tobacco, and was known to beat his wife, to boot. Anyway, after the horror of the Kiss, we had Christmas brunch, fixed by the Mexican maid, and then went into the funny-smelling living room and waited to open gifts. And waited. And waited. And waited. The dissapointing thing, of course, was that the presents I got on Christmas Eve were never any good because they were all from my great-aunts who didn't know me, and didn't care either. And you had to wait till Papa opened all of his gifts, too. Before each gift, he would announce in his toothless drawl, "I don't need them damn slippers." People had trouble buying Papa gifts.
Anyway, in spite of certain deficiencies, to me Christmas Eve is really only Christmas Eve if you're required to kiss your toothless great-grandfather and oooh and ahhh politely over gifts you don't like. This Christmas Eve, I slept in and baked brownies. Not quite the same.
Christmas Day was interesting, tho. We went to my Aunt and Uncle's again, just like Thanksgiving, and in addition to Vulgar Brother, we were graced with the precence of Aunt Merme as well. Ahhh, Aunt Merme. The name makes me think of mermaids of the Arial varriety, only old as the hills. Not a pretty picture. She's my aunt's mother's sister, and, mercy me, she should come with a warning! She's from Dallas, you understand; she lives in Highland Park and she knows it. And she wants you to know it, too. She regails everyone with stories of what is and is Not found at Neiman's this year, and throws around her Neiman's shopping sack with style. When she's not insulting her sister, that is. Or playing with her little pet, Vulgar Brother. Oooooh, she seems to like him! Maybe she wants him to whisper to her from behind, bringing his cheek in close like he did to me. Or maybe she just wants someone to boss around, who knows. But when she gave my cousin's butt a much-too-friendly slap, I realized my end of the family is not the only one with problems!