Merry Christmas, You Were A Hobo!

I'm Obviously HappyWhen I was home for Christmas last year a lot of weird shit happened. We’ll start at the beginning but I’ll probably jump around a lot. First, my father, a conservative, traditional, former Iranian resident had to meet my then Fiance for the first time. I wasn’t really worried because Francesco is about eighty-five years old on the inside so other old people like him. I was, however, worried about my father offending him because my father can offend anyone. I was nervous. So nervous that we got lost finding my own fathers house, mostly because I was too busy smoking as many cigarettes as possible and saying things like, “really, I’m not like him, I mean, I am, but I’m not rascist.” My father is rascist against pretty much everyone ever born. When we finally found the house I nearly sprinted inside and left poor Francesco running behind me. I burst into the front door where I was attacked by Mitra, my sister who is relatively famous among my friends and the two people who read my blog, and my brother sammon. My step-mom was cooking dinner and my father was on the couch. “Hi Baby,” he said because he calls everyone baby including men and strangers. Then he turned to Francesco, “Come sit down.” I ran to my step mothers side shooting her an “oh shit” look. Then we pretended to cook while we both eavesdropped. Almost immediately I heard my dad say, “what do you think of Israel?” Shortly after I heard, “money, steal, evil” followed by “blood sucking British,” and “fat ugly Americans.”

Francesco politely sat next to him letting him ramble. That’s really the best thing to do especially if you’re doing his daughter. My dad is big, angry, and even though he’s in his sixties he will throw down. I’ve seen it.

I don’t understand rascism. I’ve tried to tell that to my dad a few times but he just says it’s because I don’t know anything about the world. Obviously, if I knew stuff, I would hate everyone too. But, I have to hand it to him. He honestly doesn’t leave anyone out and even though all of his children are half American, and his wife, he doesn’t spare Americans either. We’re all cute but not beautiful because we’re half-a-stupid-a American-a. He likes to add vowels to things.

We survived. Next we went to visit my mom. My mom and dad are total opposites. My mom’s not racsist. In fact, she’s kind of an “anything goes” kind of lady. When we showed up the first thing she said was, “oooh heeey! Just in time for drinks.” She’s not an alcoholic because she waits until after five p.m., and that is a medical fact. We were tired and when we weren’t sure we wanted to drink she poubted and said we didn’t want to hang out with her. So finally we decided to have a little drink too. My step father poured a mug of whiskey. A giant mug. I’ll never understand people who can drink straight anything, especially in a mug. My mom was clenching her usual bud-light (to avoid getting fat) in her hand. She then said, “oh, and if you guys want anything, you know, it’s up there” pointing to the cupboard. I told her I didn’t really want to know what “you know” was, and so we didn’t.

The next morning I woke up early and invited my younger brother over for breakfast. I don’t eat breakfast, so basically I threw a bunch of stuff into a pan for him and chugged down coffee while he talked about his life. About the time I threw his plate in front of him he started laughing, well, more like chuckling which turned into some deep seeded roaring laughter. It was contagious really and before I knew it I was laughing too. Coffee was spraying out of my mouth and all over the table while I choked out, “wha-whats-so frrrny?” He stopped. “Mom said you guys used to live in a car when you were a baby.” That’s not fucking funny. “Dick.” And then for some reason we both started laughing again. “Did you know mom was a stripper?” He stopped laughing. And then he said, seriously? I said yeah. “Not so damn funny now is it?” I said. Then we both laughed again. In a normal family it wouldn’t be funny but in ours it was hilarious. Maybe you just had to be there.

A few days later it was Christmas and it was awesome! I love presents. I know that everyone loves them but I love them more than anyone else. That’s a fact. Google it. I also love that “google” is a verb and a noun. Anyways, Christmas was awesome. I got a lot of cool shit but mostly I gave people cool shit. I like that. And I gave my mom not only one but TWO matching whiskey mugs. Technically they are beer mugs but that’s not the use they’ll get in her house. Anyways, back to my story. Christmas was awesome until my mom decided she had to give me and my brother two super secret presents. Secret presents sound awesome but I can fucking tell you from experience that secret presents are not awesome. After opening the box my brother and I were both so shocked, creeped out, and in general speechless that we both just stood there for a while. Then, my brother started crying, a lot. My mom looked at me like, “oh shit!” Then she said, “wait, was that bad?” I sighed and gave her a hug. Then I tried to explain to her that photoshopping a picture of our dead brother into modern, recent photos with me and my living brother was just, uhm, well, sad. It was sad. Then she started crying. And I was sad but I don’t cry as much as they do.

After that we had breakfast and I told my then Fiancè (who is now my husband) what happened in secret and he just kind of stared at me like I was, well, from a crazy family. “Don’t judge me.” I told him. “I’m not. I’m just sorry.”

The rest of the trip was pretty normal. My dad lectured Francesco about men-a  a-being-a-adogs and da-women a-being a-smarter so he should just accept that he’s a dog and deal with it. I smugly drank coffee during that speech. Francesco said, “ya gotta do whatcha gotta do,” about five-thousand times because he thought my moms accent was awesome, though he just sounded like he had a speech impediment because “twang” doesn’t work with an Italian accent.

Merry Christmas 2011. Can’t wait for 2012!

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