My dad should not be let out of the house.
He has no filter.
You know Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm? You know how when you watch and say, “oh my God I can’t believe he just said/did that.?”
Yeah, welcome to my reality.
My dad just doesn’t care. Talk about the ultimate definition of DGAF.
He decided to get a pedicure the other day after constant nagging from my mom and me, and told me about conversation he had at the nail salon:
“We started talking about the war in Vietnam and how we lost 50,000 Americans, and do you know what Lynn told me? ‘we lost 5 million.’”
This is how inappropriate he is. Talking about the Vietnam War in a nail salon. like, really?
Every year Carms makes toffee, and on Christmas Eve and she sends my dad and I to deliver it.
Typically, the morning starts off full of promise and Christmas joy.
The car ride normally ends in an argument and silence with Mariah’s “All I want for Christmas” playing in the background.
We walked in and our friend told us that she made coffee cake for the next morning, AKA Christmas. Without hesitation my dad asked for a piece. A piece of cake she would serve on Christmas morning to her family. Totally.
Our neighborhood. My dad proceeded to tell our family friend that he liked her grey hair and it was a good look for her. He then told her that he preferred to dye his rather than have any grey show. Again, no filter.
I contributed to the Christmas Eve fete with my critically acclaimed cookies. Yes, I take credit for them even though the dough is Pillsbury.
After a few glasses of champagne life was starting to get real fun, so I decided to make peppermint Martini’s. Whoops.
By 11 am our living room looked more like a battlefield, with wrapping paper and boxes as its casualties.
One of the gifts I received was from our housekeeper Carmen.
I’ve known Carmen since I was born. She is the sweetest person ever and every year gets me an extravagant gift.
This year she bought me a porcelain fairy angel riding on a unicorn.
It’s probably a foot tall.
Did I mention the wings move and it lights up?
We enjoyed Swedish pancakes.
If you refer to them as crepes you will be exiled from the Jones residence. Family comes over and we enjoy these every year.
They are the only (literal) taste I have of culture. The recipe looks like it could be from the Old Testament but is still preserved by a laminated sheet. (Thank God).
I don’t know if this is sacreligious, but every Christmas I make latkes. Again I won’t take credit away from Trader Joes frozen section but I grill them so that’s enough right?
The day turned sour when the Lakers lost… but we made it to my Aunt Meg’s straight-out-of-a-Pottery-Barn-magazine home.
After being denied entry to the Christmas Eve party at my house, Betty* made a comeback at my Aunt Meg’s.
In she walked with her Christmas sweater and bold personality. The dog knew of her false identity as a member of the Carmack clan and growled at her when she walked in.
The night started with a few glasses of champagne for my cousins and me, and then led to a few glasses of my fave, red wine.
My Aunt was Facetiming with our cousins and uncle who live in Maine.
When she walked in we were all drinking… I’m sorry let me repeat, intoxicated. Aunt Meg turns her iPhone to us and says “Look kids, the Carmack kids are playing scrabble”. In my stupor I say, “Look, we’re drinking.” But what’s new in my life.
By the way, the family has had enough of Betty* and will not let her come to any more of our holiday events.