The 12 Hams Of Christmas

It's Christmas time, and UPS is here. Again.

I open the door, and  drag in an obscenely large, cold, cardboard box.

On it reads: 

To: Dawn, Justin and Derek

From: Dad

Derek: "Ooooooooooooooooh mommy what is it???!!!!"

Me: "It's a ham".

Derek: "How do you know?"

Me: "It's a ham."

Derek: "Yeah but you didn't even open …"

Me: "It's a ham. A very large, ham Derek. I get it every year. This year I'm strapping it into a baby seat and driving it to the needy. I hear they're in desperate need of warm blankets and ham."

Derek: "Cant we just open it and see if…"

Me: "Ham, Derek … Ham."

Every Christmas, without fail, my dad sends me a ham. And I'm not really sure I should say "without fail", because between me and you, no one eats it. Generally, we graffiti it with expletives and submit it to the Museum of Modern Art.

Two months after the invasion of the Thanksgiving turkey, as we're still picking out turkey from between our teeth … here comes our new roommate, the Here -Til '-August, Christmas ham. 

It's a ham so colossal, that upon its arrival, warrants me to begrudgingly rearrange the contents of my already packed refrigerator, like a failed attempt at a Rubix cube, just for it to eventually not fit in.

Where the hell is The Hamburgler when you need him.

Funny thing is, I really want to appreciate this ham. I really do. And I think I did…the first 11-14 years I received it. But for starters, I don't eat ham. Oddly enough, for some reason, receiving this poor innocent ham every year like clockwork, has touched a nerve so deep that I actually considered throwing it out. 

But after looking at it again and thinking..."Where's the wheels?"…I realized I'd probably end up throwing my back out instead.

Plan B: Maybe I can just shot-put it into the woods. After all, raccoons need Christmas gifts, too. Rabies alone isn't festive enough. 

Ham Hostility. That's even a new one for me. So where is it coming from. 

Well, hard to believe something like a Priority Mail Nueske's Ham can prompt some type of poignant discovery in myself, but so it had. 

I realized I wasn't mad at the actual ham at all. 

That would be psychotic. And just because I yell at and flip off hams doesn't make me psychotic.

Turns out that it's not that I don't appreciate the gesture of cute little dead farm animals being sent to my front door, it's not that at all.

It's more because … (organ sound) … I'm mad that my dad doesn't call me enough to know that I don't eat ham. At least not the amount of ham that by code requires me to start working on blueprints for a guest room addition. 

Instead of a call, I get a giant, impersonal ham. His way of letting me know that he, unlike the ham, is not dead.

Upon that discovery, unlike the Grinch on Christmas Eve whose heart grew 3x too big, 

like a pair of all cotton underwear in the dryer for too long, my heart shrank 10x too small. 

Mad at the ham because I never see my dad?
No. The ham represents the dad I never see.
Genius.

A strangely epiphanic moment, all whilst the backdrop of air hung heavily with the scent of pork.

I'd so much rather see my dad than this stupid, hulking ham which he's obviously under the impression that I need in my life more than a dad. 

Could it be that he sends it because it's metaphoric of baby Jesus being born, and will be with me eternally? Maybe that's why it's swaddled with sections of cotton gauze. Although that could be cheesecloth for basting. I'm not really sure. But whatever the case, like Christ, it's certainly omnipotent.

I could even possibly forgive the ham if it were delicious, and not so dry from flying around from state to state, accumulating frequent flyer miles in the cargo section of an airplane. But as it stands, it's so dry that instead of kindling, I use it to start a nice ambient fire on Christmas day. When my dad asks me if I roasted the ham, I just say "yes". So it works out nicely.

And God Forbid I should be so blunt as to say:

…"Dad. Really. You need to stop with the ham."

I don't hear from him now, can't imagine if I insulted his annual ham. That'd be grounds for 1 phone call a year, versus the current symmetrical 2.

So it ends up looking more like this:

Me: "Oh hi dad, thanks so much for the ham! I told you last year, and the year before, and the year before that, that you really, really, did NOT need to be so generous and send us a 46 lb. ham again. But thank you. So nice of you. And since you did, I'll make sure to make some ham and cheese quiches, and split pea with ham soup, ham sandwiches for the kids, and green eggs and ham. Thank you!"***

*** Lies. I cut it into cubes and divvied it up to my dogs for the past 3 years. But I was thinking of you the whole time.

Last year, since the ham was caked in 30 lbs. of ice, after the painful workout I endured from dragging it in, I needed to rest my feet on something so I used the ham for 4 months as a biodegradable ottoman.

I always wanted an ottoman for Christmas.

This year, I call my dad…

Me: " Hi dad it's Dawn. Omg when was the last time you called me, whoops! Meant, 'Merry Christmas', and thanks for sending the ham. I'm waiting for some friends to come over so they can help me lift it onto the counter."

Dad: "Oh good…it got there already? " 

Me: " Yeah Dad, asteroids travel pretty fast … Dad that ham is so big, it'd be the first thing I'd throw off a sinking ship. Yep, got here yesterday! I'd put it on the phone to say hi, but it's in the middle of holding up my house at the moment."

Me:  "Dad, seriously. I love you, but next year, save yourself some money…that's a LOT of ham. Unless I cut it up and give it to all my dogs, which I'd never do, there's no way we can all eat this before it goes bad."

Dad:  "That's OK. The kids I'm sure will eat it."

Me: "Dad, it's almost impossible for them to eat it while I'm resting my feet on it."

Okay fine.

I know he means well. I'm over it. I got it off my chest. I'm not mad at him nor his ham, nor Mr. Nueske's entire family anymore.

I'll just continue coming up with new inventions for it every year, as well as continue to jam it into the fridge, muscle the refrigerator door closed, and walk away reprehending it under my breath like I would a kid sent to his room for peeing into a wall socket.

Moral of the Story:

Ham is not a replacement for real love or genuine communication during the holidays.

Chocolate dipped cookies and Frosted Cakes are.

Get with it dad.

Merry Christmas

& 

Bah Hambug.

:)

~dawn

How To Properly Prepare A Human for Thanksgiving Dinner.

1.  Start out by making a list of a bunch of humans you'd never want all in the same room at the same time, and then proceed to invite each and every one of them to your Thanksgiving dinner.

2.  Resign yourself to gorging from Thanksgiving until New Years Eve, when at that point, you will stoically join a gym, go for 2 weeks, and never return, ever again. 

3.  Thanksgiving morning: Wake up. Grunt something about "...fucking traffic".

4. Remove 9 years worth of clothing off of home treadmill in an attempt to find it for rumored post Thanksgiving workout.

5. Once shower water reaches 82º, wash human thoroughly under soapy running water.

6.  Remove any stray facial, ear, chin, nose, tongue hair that might cause human to human revulsion during Thanksgiving dinner.

7.  Carefully drape the body in clothes or circus tent that can successfully hide your soon to be, deteriorating physical state. 

8.  Transfer expensive, store-bought, world renowned bakery desserts into shitty household tupperware as to create the illusion of your baking skills and abundant Thanksgiving efforts.

9.  Simmer in traffic for 3-17 hours or until brain is tender enough to shoot anyone even looking in your direction. If you haven't done this, you haven't sat in traffic long enough, and must go back and repeat this process or Thanksgiving just isn't the same.

10.  Female humans: Spend roughly 1-4 hours rehashing and carefully dissecting every potential jab made at you at last years Thanksgiving dinner, and the year before, for no reason other than, it feels good.

11. Spend additional 3 hour car ride to dinner, berating your husband or spouse for claiming he didn't pick up on any of it.

12. To better prepare a human for inevitable snarky comments at table, 

carefully go over your "what if she says this…what if he says that" lists in the car ride over there. 

13. Always arrive on time, with homemade food, wine, flowers and a smile on your face. And half trashed if you can.

14. Upon arrival, pickle brain promptly with approximately 1/2 gallon of alcoholic beverage of your choice, to help diminish Thanksgiving awareness.

15. Look for something resembling a cornucopia, raise to lips. Pretend you're the dude from the Ricola commercial playing the Flugalhorn. Clean up fruit from floor.

16. Set timer for about 35 minutes; Time how long it will take for that one predictable asstard that's destined to try and impress us with his/her factual knowledge about the sleep inducing affects of the Tryptophan in turkey.

17. For proper digestion and retention of ones utensils, do not talk about Obama anything.

18. Lie about the hosts ability to retain the moistness and juiciness of turkey despite your Ginsu steak knife, your saliva, and 32 gnashing teeth not being able to break it down. 

19. Take unbearable friend or family members ass measurements to see if they'll comfortably fit in your oven for next years Thanksgiving dinner.

20. Be gracious and express gratitude toward people who contributed all the delicious food on the table. To all others whose food wasn't swallowable, point rudely at them and giggle.

21.  To guarantee the prompt elimination of oneself and/or visiting additional human families at the end of the night, in replace of egg nog, drink 12 raw eggs to spur on Salmonella poisoning. 

22. Take note of how annoying and misbehaved all kids are when they're not your own annoying, misbehaved kids.

23. Prepare human for dessert by discreetly unbuttoning pants while no one is looking. Refluff  shirt.

24. Using a hot oil thermometer, test gravy temperature to see if dumping it on someones lap is even worth it.

25. Observe droves of women toiling in the kitchen and the man clusters half asleep all over the couches. Observe.

26. To prevent calories and fat from adhering to stomach and thighs, eliminate plates and forks, eat cake and pastries directly from box. This is female-verified scientific data.

27. Go to the bathroom. 

28. Lift up shirt. Assess damage.

30. Stuff towels under door crack to muffle screams.

31. Be truly thankful for all your wonderful family members and friends. 

32. Walk quietly and classily toward your car. Close car door.  Start verbally throwing some people under a bus.

32.  Forgo cell phone game apps and instead spend the ride home playing connect the dots with your new cellulite dimples to pass the time.

33. Stare at brake lights. Curse turkeys.

34. Get home, go to your bedroom and pass out*****. 

*****Actually, did I ever tell you why you'll be extra sleepy and pass out ? Well, it's not because you're just full. It's mostly because turkey meat has these really high levels of this sleep inducing chemical in it that is naturally produced in our own bodies to help induce sleep. I'm not sure if you've ever heard of it. It's called tryptophan. 

:)~

~dawn 

Not So Pretty In Pink: The Men of Westport, CT.

It was Labor Day 2009, the end of the summer and i innocently thought, why not celebrate it by having a little barbecue, a little Frisbee and some much needed cathartic time taking notes dismantling the residents. That's always a favorite family pastime.

My idea of beach outing preparedness is a cooler packed with beer, grabbing a hoodie, snacks, and some stained sheet no longer usable for the dog bed.

But for the greater majority of well-to-do Westport residents, a typical families pilgrimage to the beach for a 'Casual' Labor Day bbq becomes this elaborate setup that Martha Stewart could masturbate to.

There's tiki torches abound, matching flame heights of course...your basic run-of-the-mill pop up tiki huts , coordinating beach recliners made from biodegradable sea grass, tents pitched whose sizes would rival Barnum and Baileys elephant wing, brandy snifters, smoking jackets, William Sonoma barbecue sauces, Clap-On gas grills, and loud obnoxious discussions about the Dow. Talk a little louder please. My aunt in the far corners of New Zealand cant quite hear you.

All this affected celebratory competitiveness, as they proudly sip their wines from only high lead crystal wine glasses overflowing with wine that is exclusively set aside for the Vatican church but with one phone call is air dropped to Compo Beach from Italy that morning.

And to top off the afternoon festivities, thanks to the added convenience of live-in nannies, ( hmmm, live-in...guess the Dow Jones is doing better...or so i fucking HEAR... ) I've been reminded that all of Westport's offspring are irritatedly named Zachery and Skyler. I know this because I heard it in yelled across the beach in Ecuadorian, Venezuelan, Brazilian, Trinidadian, Polish, Hungarian, Peruvian, and Michigan. I am now fluent in Zachery and Skyler.

It certainly does challenge my childhood memories of family beach bbqing at Coney Island... where we'd sit around and talk near a fire that was made by tossing some homeless persons stray articles of clothing into a stolen beach garbage pail and setting it on fire with gasoline we siphoned out of someones car. Those were the days.

So there I was, at Compo Beach, Westport CT, hellbent on relaxing and trying to feel somewhat welcome... with my stained broken cooler, the beach provided pre-seagulled-shat-on picnic table (you know, to open my beer) and my spider web enshrouded lawn chair I dug out of the mildewy shed. (I know how to blend. I'm super chameleon-like.) The more I look around, the more desperately I need a beer, my hoodie and come to think of it, a semi-automatic paintball gun.

To make myself feel completely invisible, I thought playing some Avenged Sevenfold out of my Jeep would be a nice backdrop for the adjacent family with the Foie Gras, Braised Ostrich and Frog Legs beach entree. I was doing my best.

When I get out of my jeep, at first glance I thought I got the wrong directions and inadvertently drove to the coast of South Africa during an active migration of the Puna Flamingos.

But much to my chagrin I was unfortunately right where I set out to go. Compo Beach, Westport Ct. 06880.

And the chaos of pink I witnessed before me wasn't in fact something as awe inspiring as the tropical flamingo, it was rich men in pink shorts. Pink. Linen. Shorts. Everywhere you looked.

Lets just call it the garden variety of hubris you only see with financially able Westport residents of the male gender.

Who else wears bright pink or powder pink linen shorts but Westport men and the mannequins in the window of Banana Republic Fag (a new division).

As far as the eye can see, upon this long expanse of sand and blue skies is a sect of full grown men dressed like they raided their daughters laundry basket. Is this perhaps to.... show their softer, more feminine side? If so, please give me some helpful pointers seeing that the only thing pink in my closet is a package of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, strawberry flavored Astro Glide and my Breast Cancer Awareness ball and gag.

See, I call rich men wearing pink shorts "Sailboat Arrogant". The message is clearly..."I don't get dirty." "I wont get dirty" "I don't do dirt."

Oh trust, you will Hendly... Before this day is over, I'll have you begging for camo shorts....once i trip you and cause your glazed Labor Day catered meatballs and red wine to careen off your turned up nose and cascade onto your crotch. You need some balls down there anyway, sir. So I'm expecting some flowers, or at least a thank you, or at the very least, an all knowing nod and grin. And my apologies for tripping you.. I didn't see you standing there, I was temporarily blinded by an abundance of sun-reflected fuchsia into my retina. You're so getting my Dr's bill.

And then of course, to compliment the flowing pink shorts , we have to have the 'I'm enjoying the good life" effect....also known as the Sweater-Tied-Around-The-Neck look. Taken right out of a vitamin commercial for retired bicycling seniors with osteoporosis. I'm guessing the "Tied around the neck" thing is an attempt to cajole female onlookers into believing that he's 'casual', yet aggressively prepared. Always ready to quickly shimmy it over his head, you know... in the event of the earths sudden shift in polarity.

He thinks aloud in a bellowing voice: "I'LL BE ONE OF THE FEW TO SURVIVE....BECAUSE. I'M WEARING MY FUZZY CAPE OF PREPAREDNESS. I'M ALWAYS THINKING. ALWAYS ON CALL. I AM SUPERMAN. IN PINK SHORTS."

And we can't forget the absolute completion of this runway disaster by wearing sockless, tasseled, leather loafers....Damp feet in dressed up wedding shoes. Very sexy. This clearly is the subconscious message...." Who has time for all this sock nonsense, putting on socks takes TIME!!! TIME I don't HAVE!! I'm too important, too on the go, too busy....dry cleaning Liberace's shorts here...."

Or is he's simply thinking, well, since my shit doesn't stink, nor will my hairy, sweaty sockless feet.

I say get some real shorts, grab a t-shirt, and get yourself a damn pair of sandals. Sandals are for sand. Loafers, are for loafs.

And I'm sure they sell them, somewhere, in pink.