Contents
Title Page
Dedication
What I Really Want for Christmas
Helpful Tips on How to Throw an Unforgettable Holiday Party and Die Alone in Six Easy Steps
Naughty or Nice
O Holy Night, or The Year I Ruined Christmas
There’s a Gun Somewhere Under the Christmas Tree
Have Yourself a Kmart Little Christmas
Mashed Potatoes, Yams, and a Urine Sample
Deck the Mall
Jingle Hell
Where Do Good Trees Go When They Die?
Christmas Death Trap
The Most Unfun Christmas Party Hostess Ever
Happy Holidays from the Asshole Family
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Laurie Notaro
Copyright Page
To Idiot Girls everywhere
What I Really Want for Christmas
This year, I’ve finally come face-to-face with the truth: I’m getting crap for Christmas. I guess it really shouldn’t bother me, and should come as absolutely no surprise. I always get crap for Christmas. I, however, do not get as much crap as my friend Kate does when she goes home to Minnesota for the holidays, and then she has to haul all of the crap halfway across the continental United States.
This year, to avoid the disappointment of asking for a leather jacket and getting a windbreaker with a reindeer on it instead (last year’s tragedy), Kate has determined that she will beat her family at their own game. She is a genius.
We were out to dinner when she unfolded her ultimate plan of brilliancy. “Last night, my mom called and asked what I wanted for Christmas,” Kate said. “And I thought for a minute, and I really wanted to say, ‘It doesn’t matter, because you’ll just get me the first thing you see with a sale sticker on it at Wal-Mart.’ And then I decided, why be disappointed? I’m never going to get what I ask for, so I told my mom, ‘What I really want is some dish towels with puffy decals on them, preferably of a Christmas character, the cheapest washcloths ever made, and the biggest, whitest pairs of underwear you can find at Sears. That’s what I want.’ ”
According to Kate, her mother giggled with delight. “Ooooh,” she cooed, “that will be easy!”
So I’m taking the same route. This year, I’ve made my list and I’ve checked it twice, so this one’s for you, Mom, who never fails to get me enough white cotton briefs to outfit a convent for a whole year, and other people who see fit to unload the Crap Wagon on me on what is SUPPOSED to be the Happiest Day of the Year. It is the DISNEYLAND OF DAYS, but I always end up hauling shit home that belongs only on a shelf at Goodwill. And no, it is not the thought that counts when the thought is “Only a little is missing. She’ll never know I used this.”
WHAT I REALLY WANT FOR CHRISTMAS
by Laurie Notaro
What I really want for Christmas is a Big Mouth Billy Bass or a Travis the Singing Trout. The more the better, especially now that they’re available in outlet stores for ninety-nine cents, being that their novelty has worn a rut into the ground deeper than the Oregon Trail. I could hang them on my wall all together, like they would be in real life in a lake. They are the funniest things I’ve ever seen, and I never get tired of hearing them sing.
Pick out a whimsical hat for me, something you’ve never seen another person wear that just beckons to you from the hat stand as you point to it and exclaim in uncontained excitement, “THAT is Laurie!” If it resembles something a character from the classic ensemble Fat Albert or Captain Stubing of The Love Boat would wear or something you’ve seen on a pimp, it probably belongs on my head. If it has feathers on it, all the better—after all, who knows my style better than people who don’t even know that acrylic gives me hives, and will be expecting me to wear it when they come to visit.
Always on my list is a scrumptious delicacy from my mother’s favorite Wax Candle Baked Goods store. I don’t know where my mother found a wax store that specializes in baked-goods and pastry candles, but she did. Good work, Mom! Mmmm, mmmmm, just imagine a whole box of cupcakes—moist, rich chocolate cake underneath a virtual mushroom cloud of marvelous buttercream frosting, bursting with a delicious, irresistible cupcake smell. And I mean bursting, filling up rooms of the house like you’ve just baked them. It’s the perfect diet food, because biting into one is like biting into Jennifer Lopez’s double-decker ass at Madame Tussaud’s, kinda like sinking your choppers into a thick, dense bar of Irish Spring—without the flavor. Yummy yummy. Because having fake cupcakes that smell like real cupcakes around your house all day long every day is just what a fat girl needs to make her carrot-stick-and-cottage-cheese lunch last and last and last until it’s time to peel back the film on her steaming, overcooked-to-the-point-of-dehydration Lean Cuisine dinner. Yummy. I can’t say it enough. YUMMY.
Another thing I really want is chunks of hair from the hair carts at the mall. I want extensions, braids, and a big fake bun. How intriguing would I be, showing up every day with a new hairstyle? One day short, one day long, one day curly, and one day with cornrows? Please, make me beautiful (and mysterious!) (and blond!) (and redheaded!) (and raven-haired!)! Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair! Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen, but most importantly, hair I never have to wash.
This next request may seem impossible, but I know it’s not! I would love every article of clothing you can think of with Tweety Bird on it that you haven’t already given me. Yes, everything! Go to that Warner Bros. clearance rack and just plunder! T-shirts, sweatshirts, socks, a coat, a hat, a windbreaker, sweatpants, tote bag, coasters—anything with Tweety Bird on it would be just incredible, even though I’m not the one who was so fascinated with Tweety Bird that I had him tattooed on my shoulder, it’s my husband’s ex-girlfriend.
Of course, I would enjoy nothing more than getting some really cheap bath crystals, so I could use them when I take a shower because I don’t have a bathtub. If you could get some that smell like Pine-Sol or an old lady’s teeth, I would squeal with glee! Happy piglet would I be. What else would be more relaxing than tossing up a handful of crystals and running around my shower stall so they hit me and stick to me like kitty litter?
Oh, and yes, you guessed it, Christmas socks! If there’s anything that says, “Let’s celebrate the birthday of your Christian Lord,” it’s an acrylic knit with metallic thread and a reinforced toe. I love Christmas socks! I love all kinds of Christmas socks—socks with snowmen, snowflakes, Santa, trees—and if I’ve been really good this year, get me ones with the word “Believe!” stitched right up the side. I BELIEVE in Christmas socks! Christmas socks with bells? Jingly, jolly, and rockin’ with holly! If you could score Baby Jesus socks, my God. Literally! Could I ever come down off that cloud? While you’re in the foot aisle at Safeway buying my Christmas present, take a step to the left and grab a can of Tough Actin’ Tinactin, too, because I’ll want to wear these socks so much you’ll have to kill me to get them off my feet, and eventually I’ll need something for the itch and decomposition of my toes.
Don’t forget a block of monogrammed Lucite, especially one with the meaning of my name documented on it to clear up the mystery and help ground my self-identity: “Laurie: Feminine form of the Late Latin name Laurus, which means ‘laurel,’ which was used to create victors’ garlands. Saint Laura was a ninth-century Spanish martyr, a nun who was thrown into a vat of molten lead by the Moors.” Ho ho ho! That’s right. Nothing says love, class, and Happy Holidays like a clear chunk of plastic teamed up with my name and the inspiring tale of a nun who was boiled to death like a lobster.
If all of the Lucite blocks are already sold out (you can’t take astonishing gifts for grante
d, you know), do me a favor; go the extra mile and bestow upon me a Rubik’s Cube with your photo on all sides! What’s better than one photo of you? Why, SIX of them! What fun it would be to writhe in the eternal task of spending my spare time putting six of your heads on six of the appropriate bodies! Grand fun, I tell you, grand. The only way I’d have more fun is if I was beating my arms against my body while cloaked in a killer bee colony intent on tickling me all the way into an anaphylactic coma!
If you’re in a jam and suddenly realize that my name has vanished from your shopping list and you never ordered that Six Sides of Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, and Then Me Rubik’s Cube, fear not, do not curse yourself; something from your house is fine, preferably if it’s used. Who wouldn’t mind a little pre-loved bath gel or lotion, or soap that you’ve found a little too fragrant for your tastes? In the immortal words of George W. Bush during the time of overwhelming insurgent attacks in a hostile country, BRING IT ON! Shampoo that’s not for you, pour some sugar on me! I understand that you’ve merely pretested it to make sure it lives up to the standards you set for giving gifts. I totally understand that. Kind of like when people would taste food for kings to make sure it’s not poisoned, except in this case, you spit a little back on the plate is all. That’s all. Just a little spit. What’s a little spit in a heartfelt Christmas gift? So little that you almost can’t tell it’s hardly there at all. Hardly. I would also love little sample soaps and tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner from hotels. Makes me feel like I’ve been on vacation without the expense or the hassle of enjoyment.
And lastly, FREE GIFTS that you’ve received for buying something you wanted are always welcome in my Christmas stocking! After all, if you’re getting a free gift with something you bought, why pay for mine? Why should you fork out moolah for my gift just because I forked out moolah for yours? The look on our faces is payment enough when we open the Choo-Choo Train wall clock that you got as a bonus when you bought the “Riding the Rails” Hobo Train Set you’ve just spent the last hour showing us in great detail despite the fact that we have already seen it multiple times on television since the commercial offering the free Choo-Choo clock with purchase is on what you could term “heavy rotation” during the holiday season. Choo choo! Choo Choo! Every quarter, half, and full hour on the hour, choo choo! Enough to make a peaceful man take up shootin’, or to understand why you’d pass on a perfectly good free gift like this. Free gifts are not always pleasant, let’s remember, like parking tickets and VD.
Well, I can’t wait for Christmas now, as I’m sure everything on my wish list will be bought, ordered, or scavenged from the musty, danky hall closet and all of my dreams will come true. Except for the one in which I’m in a business meeting eating a doughnut and when I look down to brush off the crumbs (oh, there are always crumbs) there’s just a sprinkling of coconut flakes over my big, bare, naked boobs, although I am wearing a watch and a Hope Eternal Diamonique pendant from QVC that my mom got me last year. I hope that dream better not come true. That pendant is so full of fake sparkle it could bring in planes.
Merry Christmas!
Laurie
P.S. Oh, I forgot one thing: I sure could use some more white cotton briefs, and the bigger the better! We used some of last year’s supply to cover bushes during the last freeze, and also as sheets for the guest bedroom. Toss in some nylon panties, too, because we’re thinking about taking up skydiving.
Helpful Tips on How to Throw an Unforgettable Holiday Party and Die Alone in Six Easy Steps
I was walking by the TV last week when an episode of a local lifestyle show caught my eye. The featured guests, two police officers, were explaining how several factors were essential to make your holiday party a successful one, and that’s when I eagerly pulled up a chair to watch uninterrupted.
Oh, good, I thought, they’re going to fork over the recipe for Johnny Law’s Jungle Juice, and I got ready to write it all down, and this is what they said:
Holiday Prevention Information for those of you who are HOSTING Parties:
• Serve high-protein food, and offer nonalcoholic beverages.
• Encourage guests to designate a driver or offer alternative transportation.
• Never serve alcohol to those under the age of twenty-one.
• Don’t let guests mix their own drinks, and “close the bar” ninety minutes before the party ends.
• Report suspected drunk drivers IMMEDIATELY to area police.
Now, I don’t know how many parties those cops have been to in their lives, but in my book, those aren’t tips on how to have a successful party; those are a step-by-step list of “Six Easy Steps to Become a Social Pariah and Ensure a Death So Lonely That Only the Stench of Your Corpse Will Be of Consequence to Anybody.”
Okay, now the “serve high-protein food” part I can totally agree with, because if you ever lose me at a party, find the cheese platter. Sure, some people call it filler, but I call it “Little Squares of Love,” and as far as I’m concerned, there’s no reason to answer the door if you don’t have little orange cubes with frilly toothpicks stuck in them behind it.
The alternative transportation part—sure, fine, fine, whatever. You want alternative transportation, hire a limo, but all you’re getting from me is the recitation of “252-5252 Yellow Cab” and my phone in your hand. I mean, I’m throwing a party here, I’m not running FedEx. If you positively, absolutely have to be back home overnight, dude, make some Mormon friends, but don’t count on me to be your ride.
Then there’s the “never serve alcohol to those under the age of twenty-one” clause, which I guess I can agree with because I’m married, but if I was still dating, I mean, that’s like throwing away half of the sea full of very strapping, fetching fish. Perfectly good talent going right to waste. But hey, you know, I want to throw a successful Holiday Prevention Information party, and that means no drunk, sexy, virile younguns, apparently.
And then we have the “Don’t let guests mix their own drinks, and ‘close the bar’ ninety minutes before the party ends” rule.
Honestly, I’m not even sure what I should say first about this.
Um, you know, the last time I had a party that ended at a specific time, I got hit after my friends went home because Rhonda Legarski attached the tape on the tail of the donkey to my mother’s brand-new red-velvet-flocked wallpaper.
Ninety minutes before the party ends? How are you supposed to know when THAT is? I mean, when the host flies out a window or is seen passed out in a bathtub or is escorted away in handcuffs, THEN I guess you can say, “Wow, we were supposed to stop drinking, like, ninety minutes ago,” but come ON, man! Do you see me with my own TV show talking to dead people? I’m no psychic! I didn’t go to school for that! How do I know when the party is going to end? That’s a lot of pressure for a partygoer, you know! Most of the time I’m not even sure if it’s still P.M., let alone trying to figure out when every alcoholic at the party is going to burst into a pumpkin!
Surely my FAVORITE has to be “Report suspected drunk drivers IMMEDIATELY to area police.” Oh, sure, yeah. Especially if you want to have another party next year. Talk about having five pounds of cheese cubes on your hands. Absolutely, everyone is going to go to your house for a party, especially when you got seven people arrested last year in your driveway. “Let’s go to Neil’s party this year, I think it will be a whole lot more fun than turning myself in,” or “You know, Sharon’s party is the place to be if you ever wondered what a Field Sobriety Test was like.” Sure, it’s a good idea, but only if you’re running for office.
So beware, folks, if you’re invited anywhere this season, you might want to ask if you can peek at the Party Manifesto before you commit to an evening of fun that rivals time spent in a holding pen at the county jail.
Well, at least there you could say, “You know, you should have stopped drinking ninety minutes ago.”
Naughty or Nice
Naughty or nice.
Naughty or nice.
I wavered back and forth as I approached the line at the checkout as it grew, exponentially, by the second.
If you’ve ever been to a do-it-yourself craft store in the weeks preceding the holiday season, I can fully confirm that you have experienced the seventh circle of hell.
All I needed was a $1.49 chunky rubber stamp in the shape of a jingle bell to make some Christmas cards, and I found myself fourth in line, right behind a lady with dyed ratty hair. Despite the two cashier’s stations facing each other, some genius had decided that we were all going to form one line, which stretched out into the aisle and placed me in front of a rack of twinkle-light nets on sale for $2.99. After the third Glue Gun Queen grazed my shin with her cart and caught the bottom of my backpack purse with her elbow, I turned around and bellowed a loud “EXCUSE ME,” just to prove that I hadn’t taken my invisible pills that morning.
“Oh,” the cart-wielding maniac giggled. “Those backpacks are so cute, but they can be such a pain sometimes!”
“Yeah,” I agreed, flashing my gummiest, widest smile. “Though it generally isn’t bothersome until someone tries to ram a cart up my ass. You can go ahead and try it, but I’d have to charge you my standard rate unless you have a military ID.”
It was starting to get pretty hot in the store. At one of the registers, a couple was arguing with the cashier about a seven-foot fake Christmas tree that had been advertised but had sold out; at the other register, a woman who had gone to high school with Mary Todd Lincoln moved up to the counter with a wagon full of twenty-nine-cent gold and red silk flowers.
“Twenty-nine, twenty-nine, twenty-nine,” the cashier announced as she scanned each tag.
“No!” the silk-flower woman crackled. “That one was from the twenty-five-cent cart!”
“I bet the last time you were behind a cart it was being pulled by oxen,” I said under my breath.
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