A joint xmas post
Since our mother is still not vaccinated, we’d like to take a minute to talk about Christmas with Dad.
Kate:
I have literally four memories of Dad during the holidays.
In 1984 (?), when I was 4.5 and pretty much too young to have accurate memories, I remember sneaking downstairs to the basement and seeing Mom and Dad putting presents under the tree together. This may not make sense because I think they were already separated at the time, or had perhaps just decided to separate? My sister may remember this differently. This was the year I got the big Scooby-Doo stuffed animal. By “big” I mean six feet tall. My second college boyfriend would later gut it and wear it as a Halloween costume. He had my blessing, but Mom, who likes to hang on to stuff FOREVER, was devastated.
Dad taking me to New York for the first time after fall semester let out my sophomore year of college. I had never been before. We stayed at some hotel on Staten Island that his two-years-shy-of-Marine-retirement ass could stay at for free or something, and we took the big orange ferry over every day. While waiting in the ferry terminal, “In the Air Tonight” came on, and Dad started singing along in my ear. Classic Dad. Was this before he had his uvula removed? Inquiring minds want to know. Downtown, he treated me to such delights as Miro and Hopper exhibits, fancy French meals, and coffee at the espresso shop featured in Shaft. I remember being overjoyed at the larger-than-life Xmas decorations on 5th Avenue, running across the street and yelling, “BALLS!” We also have great photos of us from that trip that feature the Twin Towers in the background, which gives you a hint that I AM OLD.
And now a word from our sponsors before numbers three and four.
Christie:
It was Mom who ruined the concept of Santa being real. I don’t know that we ever really believed, per se, but we didn’t question when presents were labeled as being to us and from Santa instead of an identifiable family member. Anyway, when we lived in the Glebe Road townhouse, before Mom’s not-boyfriend Bo took over the basement and I called the cops on his ass, the bedroom that served as Mom’s office and sewing room was also the present-hiding room. I haven’t thought about this in a long time, but I want to say that the door was closed, I was going back upstairs after watching TV in the wood-paneled family room, and I opened the door to peek inside. I wasn’t caught or anything, but I think I must’ve made a smartass remark about all the unwrapped toys stacked in there, including the microscope Transformer. You never saw that guy on the show, because why the fuck would you bring a giant robot microscope anywhere when he doesn’t have wheels? Way to be inconvenient, bro. Autobots, roll out—well, except for you, Science McSciency. Me: “You bought all this, right? Not Santa?” Mom: “Yes.” Whatevs.
Oh wait, were we talking about Dad instead?
I came up with this post idea because there was one landmark post-divorce Christmas—I mean truly epic—when Dad came down from the Commonwealth of Philly to his usual haunt, the Cherry Blossom Motel, bearing gifts for us. After a lot of thought, I’ve determined it was 1989 (get out of here, Taylor Swift, your music sucks and you aren’t invited), and Dad had his still-newish black Ford Escort, USU-491. I always wanted to learn how to drive that thing, because it had a yellow “Shift” light between the turn signals in case you forgot how a manual transmission works. It also might not have had a tachometer, come to think of it, so then the light makes sense if, you know, you’re deaf and can’t hear the engine revving. This whole thing could be a Mitch Hedberg monologue. #rip #sorryfortheconvenience
So again, the point really was for Kate and myself to attempt to remember all the gifts Dad brought us for this particular Christmas, because it was the only time—at least that I can remember—he just straight-up bought a ton of shit, and more or less every gift was on point. Even now, all these years later, Dad has the uncanny ability to buy random things for us that we wind up really liking, with special emphasis on him “knowing our colors.” I had a fear when I was younger that because Dad was the one who left, he wouldn’t really pay attention to us and eventually would wind up not really knowing us. It turns out that he’s really fucking good at paying attention, even at a distance. Maybe it’s because all three of us are the same astrological sign, which Linda Goodman would endorse. Regards, Chris. (A story for another post.)
Here’s what I can remember from the gift list:
the infamous joint gift, a CASIO keyboard
matching teal Wilson tennis rackets, which we did actually use (“It says here you like ‘debutt’?”)
a dual-speed/dual-temperature hair dryer for me
possibly the matching red/gold satin snap-front USMC jackets?
the most important gift for me, a navy, white, and yellow striped cardigan from the Gap, which I wound up wearing 2 years later on my very first date, with a white turtleneck, navy Palmettos pants, and brown lace-up Bass oxfords, what do you mean nobody remembers what they wore on their first date, IT IS SEARED INTO MY MEMORY LIKE AN OUTBACK STEAK
Kate again:
These memories are out of order on purpose, btw…
No, Squarespace, this is actually 3. I guess this is a Bev memory instead of a Dad memory, and it might have happened on Black Friday instead of Xmas, but there was one time in the mid-2000s when Christie and I were showing off all the shit we bought, and I showed Bev a pair of minty green Converse Chuck Taylors, and she said, “I’ve always hated those shoes,” which tells you everything you need to know about Bev. Oh wait, when I first started writing this post I think I meant to include a memory of Dad inviting us to his bachelor pad townhouse by Fort Myer to meet his new girlfriend April on Christmas morning. No thanks. But we went. I was 4 or 5 and very confused. Was this the same year as Scooby?
By which I mean 4. I started reading Christie’s contributions and she says the epic Xmas happened in 1989, but I swear it happened in 1991, because I do not remember receiving a tennis racket until 7th grade. Here is what I remember receiving in that Cherry Blossom Motel room:
Wilson brand tennis rackets (and I guess balls?)
One Casio keyboard on which we all immediately argued about the right way to play “Superstition”
The pink and white IKEA desks? Or was this some other time?
Literally don’t remember anything else
Making it among the most impractical gifts of all time for poor people like ourselves, btw, that keyboard ran on D batteries. Do you know how big and expensive D batteries were/are? And how quickly they ran out of juice when you spent hours on end playing the theme song to Super Mario 2 and random shit by NKOTB?
Those are man hands for scale.
I guess what we’re saying is, if you want to have one of the most memorable Christmases of all time, be like Dad and get an array of random shit that will entertain your children. But if you get them a keyboard, just make sure it comes with an AC adaptor. And if you spell it “adapter,” nobody loves you and you don’t deserve any presents this year.
