The 12 Holiday Faux Pas
A fantastic group of 12 writers and bloggers came together to share different Christmas subjects. Their creative drive blew me away. All of them have blogs, some have even written books, and there are too many fun stories to tell. Please check all of these wonderful people out by hitting the link after each Faux Pas has passed! My subject is the dreaded Holiday Faux Pas. Some of these are truly cringeworthy examples of what not to do if you ever find yourself in the exact same situation. They also are comedic delights and taught me lessons as well. Merry Christmas and best for a bright new year, Justin
The room fell dead silent. This jackass had just disrespected my grandmother’s beloved traditional dinner, which is the worst possible faux pas you can commit in the south. My face flushed, and my eyes burned death rays into my husband. He simply stood there like a jerk, and didn’t bother to apologize. I glossed the incident over by blaming his statement on bad English, but I don’t think anybody bought it. They knew it was a lie. My suspicion was confirmed when I called my grandmother to tell her I was divorcing (for mostly other reasons), a year later. Her loud cry of joy in my ear kinda tipped me off. The quickest way to spark a divorce debate is by insulting someone’s cooking at Christmas. Good thing my current husband knows better. 😉 Merry Christmas, Amberr!
8th Holiday Faux Pas
I learned a valuable lesson: Don’t assume everything is a joke.
In January, my first book of short stories will be published by Green Darner Press: Sandcastle and Other Stories. It is now available at Amazon as an eBook, but I just spent the past month working out the trade paperback design and getting all the ducks in a row and the book looks beautiful and playful. I hope you all can find it in your local bookstores soon in the new year.
5th Holiday Faux Pas
Christmas comes but once a year, and it’s a time that I look forward to all year long. It usually means spending time with my family, scattered as we are throughout these great states of ours. Christmas of 2010 was no different… this year it was my turn to trek across the continent and back to my Pennsylvania stomping grounds, my sister’s house in Pittsburgh, PA. First, I drove from Colorado to Arizona, a 13 hour trip to meet up with my mother and her SO (significant other) Ernie, and from there, (the very next day) the grueling 33+ hour drive to Pennsylvania for the holiday fun. The very day we set out, we received a phone call from my brother-in-law: the nieces were down for the count with the stomach flu. He assured us it was a 24-hour bug and he was vigilantly bleaching every bleach-able surface in the house. Joy. Since it was too late to turn around, we resigned ourselves to our fate and headed onward. All was well when we arrived. True to his word, the bleach-able surfaces had been bleached, and my nieces were once again happy, healthy, and doubting that Santa exists.
Well, I’m here to tell you, yes, Santa does exist, and I would like to know what we all did to deserve the epic Stomach Flu Epidemic of Christmas 2010. First my brother-in-law, then my sister, and finally me, on Christmas Eve, fell victim to the virus. And that wasn’t all. The nieces all managed to have a relapse the day after Christmas. All three of them.
This year, we’ve blackballed Santa from this household, and the only way he’s allowed back is if he brings us sincere apologies for the puke-fest we endured last Christmas.
Happy, Flu-Free Holidays to all!
My grandmother was not religious – at least, I don’t really think so. She never went to mass, or even attended church for the holidays, and we didn’t say grace at Christmas or any other mealtimes. She very rarely spoke about God and my Mum said Nana didn’t really believe. Except when it suited her. My grandmother was like that. All kinds of rules could be bent or ceased to exist when it suited her – but no one else. To be clear, I have nothing against religion. Two of my three closest friends are religious. But I do have a problem with hypocrisy, I do have a problem with being patronised, I do have a problem with intolerance (against anyone, for any reason) and I’ve always believed I have the right to say what I think. Regardless of my age.
So at Christmas one year, around age 12 or 13, when my grandmother said to me ‘I feel sorry for you because you don’t believe in God’ I promptly replied (without stopping to think for even a millisecond) ‘That’s OK Nana, I feel sorry for you because you do’. There was no real truth in that statement, it was just a snappy riposte to what I perceived as an intolerant insult. Tolerance means accepting that some people don’t believe as much as it means accepting people who believe differently, right? In this case, the insult was aggravated by the fact my grandmother didn’t believe except when it suited her agenda!
My grandmother’s expression could not be described as anything short of apopletic. Mum leaned over and nudged me in the ribs, whispered, ‘You’ll be off the Christmas card list next year for sure!’
Alas, ’twas not true. My grandmother continued to give me a McDonalds calendar for Christmas every year until I was 18 . . .
Case in point: About ten years ago or so, (okay twenty), it had been a busy holiday season what with a lot of my friends getting married and all of the parties for Christmas. So we get to the business holiday party and my husband gives his boss the present that I’d purchased and wrapped. She goes to open it and she looks up.
Time has slowed down at this point. If everyone is five minutes older and cannot reason why – I am the culprit. You see, I’ve realized what he’d just given his boss. It was the gift he’d grabbed and shoved in his briefcase and promised he’d not forgotten on his quick trip home to pick up a few things. It was the one that had the name Lily on it, (his boss’ name), but was actually the bridesmaid gag gift for my friend Lily who had joked about a well…something that was more like an appendage that uh…one could strap on and…
Yeah. I had a lot of explaining to do. Good thing someone had spiked the punch.
Merry Christmas, Maureen!
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