|WAXING OFF: FUCK THE HALLS AND STICK THE HOLLY.|
|By Cathy Hannan, Kelly Mills, Susie Felber, Darci Ratliff, Jen Hubley, and Lauri Apple||
Remember that scene in Less Than Zero where Andrew McCarthy gets the holiday card and it says "Let's Fuck Christmas Together?" Truer words could not have been spoken when it comes to this month's Waxing Off. Our ladies shed all of their holiday giddiness and delve deep into the morbidity of their darkened spirits to dish out some fuck-it-all dourness for our entertainment.
Imagine if Bing Crosby suddenly molested Rudolph inside Santa's toy shop. Or you spent New Year's Eve being covered with saran wrap and smacked around with banana peels by Ryan Seacrest. Or if Santa just sat his fat ass over the ledge and took a giant chestnut-filled crap inside our chimneys. Now that you are adequately maladjusted with these images of holiday torment, you will better understand and appreciate these holiday yarns spun by our cracked-out wenches.
Happy Holidays to each and every Black Table reader. And, for the love of God, we hope you never have to experience anything quite like these stories during this magical time of the year.
When I was in college, I cut my xmas break short. My friends had a whole
'nother month of hanging out at the parents' houses, smoking hash, getting
drunk and sleeping around. I had to drive back to school the day after
Xmas to finish up my senior thesis, and I really felt pathetic. New Year's
Eve would probably be spent alone. Campus was deserted, it was cold as
hell, and to make matters worse, my slutty roommate was in town for the
holidays slinging PBR's at the bar where she worked.
A male voice replied from the bathroom. A mountain man whom I'd never seen before was standing there. Roomie was lying in the tub, naked, in a stew of about 1 1/2 inches of puke and 3 inches of bathwater.
"Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my apartment!??" I yelled.
He was evidently making sure Roommate didn't drown or choke on her own vomit, enjoying the view in the meantime.
According to Grizzly, they'd come back to our place and finished up a bottle or two of tequila, had sex in my bed, after which she got sick and then passed out in the tub.
He also filled me in that the heat was mysteriously stuck on full blast, so that had the windows not been open the temp inside would been about 175 degrees. The super was gonna come check it out the next day.
I made him leave, rinsed the bigger puke-chunks off of her, got her dressed and put her to bed. Then I began work on my thesis, in my hot, blustery barf-smelling apartment, the roommate comatose and me not feeling at all in the holiday spirit.
On Christmas Day 2001, I was living in a one-bedroom apartment off the Drag -- i.e. Slacker Lane -- in Austin, Tex., still relatively friendless after moving there four months previously, and about 2,000 miles from home. Because my family and I can only go for about six hours at a clip before engaging in some group existential crisis-slash-screaming match, it didn't seem worth the $300 for me to fly home. So I stuck around Austin, expecting to dine on Chinese food and finish the book that my boss had loaned me: Sinclair Lewis' "It Can't Happen Here" (this was a few months after 9/11).
Keeping me company that Christmas was a butterscotch-colored stray cat named Hillbilly. My co-worker, Lee, gave me him before going off on his own family festivities. "I already have five strays to take care of," he said. "Can't afford another."
"I'll take him," I said. At 5 p.m. Lee left work for Kansas City. Only then did I call my landlord, who said that Hillbilly was going to cost me $200 in pet fees. Being a cheapskate, that wasn't going to fly.
After work that day, I tried peddling Hillbilly at the bong-and-tie-dye market five blocks down the Drag. Not one of the hippie-vendors took him in. "I already have 23 cats," a grizzly woman apologized. I received several responses like this.
On Christmas Day, all of the Chinese restaurants within biking distance had closed. Hillbilly and I dined on a bacchanalian holiday feast of generic macaroni and cheese and tuna patties with ketchup. For fun I read the Lewis book, an original copy with crumbling pages. Hillbilly watched.
Post-holidays our art director took Hillbilly in, but he ran away within weeks, never to return.
I despise New Year's as the most pathetic of holidays. I feel I've spent enough of my life getting drunk, being overdressed, feeling remorseful about the lack of progress I've made in my life, and swearing to a bunch of promises I know I won't keep, so I just don't see the need to set aside a special day to celebrate this. However, the root of this aversion may in fact be due to one particularly heinous New Years when I was in high school. My friends and I decided to go to a party thrown by our buddy's older brother. While I did relish the opportunity to wear a super cute new dress, our preparatory cocktail of peach schnapps and Valium did not serve me well. I had high hopes when a boy I had admired for three years flirted with me as we leaned against the keg, and since my memories stop there, I often wish the witnesses hadn't felt it necessary to clue me in to further events. Allegedly I fucked this boy, which might not be so bad, except for the fact that it took place in a room full of people I went to school with. Once finished, I found my equally drunk sister in the next room, and apparently randomly punched her in the stomach, which caused her to vomit non-stop for the next hour. I unfortunately made it home, and passed out in the bathtub in my own puke, which even my clueless parents knew to be a bad sign.
So here are the resolutions I made the next morning that I still try and keep to this day: 1) Do not screw someone you have a crush on when you are too drunk to remember it. 2) While you are in high school, abstain from public sex, as it is a Very Bad Idea. 3) Don't go to parties with people you are related to. 4) If you think it likely you will vomit, don't wear your good clothes. The smell never comes out.
Unfortunately, the Felber family holiday drama jumped the shark in the 70's, when, on Christmas Eve, my grandmother was struck and killed by a drunk driver while she was crossing the street.
I was only two at the time, so I am not in a position retell the story. But I do know drunk driving laws were not what they are today. I think the police made the guy recite the "liquor before beer" rhyme and sent him on his way.
I sometimes have a fantasy of doing the detective work to find this guy, and showing up on his doorstep with a film crew. First I'd claim I was the daughter he never knew who was put up for adoption by a scared teenage mother named Chrissy. Then when he was digesting this shocker I'd say, "Just kidding! Actually, you ran over my grandmother when returning stinking drunk from an office holiday party! Remember? Oh, right you probably don't. My bad!" Then I'd ask to come in his house and he'd let me because everyone wants to be on TV. Then I'd be really calm and chip away at him with the ice pick that is my heart until he cried tears of pent-up guilt. Then I'd take that tape home and masturbate to it.
In any case, you can be assured that Christmas in my family is a time when everyone's moods get a whole lot blacker than you people who "suffer" from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Not that I'm trying to compete for the most traumatic holiday experience. But you've got to admit, if it were a contest, I'd win, gas pedal down.
The year I spent New Year's Eve watching puppets kick each other in the groin, I had started out with the very best of intentions.
Some weeks earlier, my friends and I had decided that we were too old to spend New Year's Eve drinking in a basement. We were too young, still, to have a civilized dinner party. And we were too broke to go to some bar and pay $100 bucks a head to get our asses grabbed by some middle-aged fratboy. Clearly, the thing to do was to make our only friend with any kind of connections -- i.e., Mike, the radio guy -- get us tickets to something good.
"Well, I'm going to this thing called Kaiju Big Battle," Mike said, when I called and outlined our excellent plan. "I think I could get a couple more folks in, if you're interested."
"What's Kaiju Big Battle again?"
"I have no idea. There's ... fighting, I guess? And puppets?"
I paused. "Should I be on a lot of drugs for this?"
On New Year's Eve, we queued up in the freezing cold with half the city of Boston to get into a giant auditorium. The staff outside, appeared to have been recruited from the local arts college, and they were dressed up in elaborate monster costumes made out of leather and foam.
"Hi, I'm here to see Gwar," I told Godzilla, handing him my ticket.
He stared at me blankly with his button eyes.
Once inside, we got to wait for everything: one hour in line for beer,
forty-five minutes to stow our coats. Even finding a place to stand for
the show was a struggle: The auditorium itself was huge, but the cage
where the action was going to take place was somewhat small.
I looked at Mike. He looked at me.
"Something's wrong, here," I said. "It's like we're..."
"We're at a professional wrestling match," he said. "We're spending New Year's Eve at the WWF."
All in all, I'd rather get groped by a fratboy.
I spent my lamest New Year's Eve in rural Texas. I had started college the previous fall, and even though I had been clamoring to escape small-town quicksand for ages, I decided, for sentimentality's sake, I'd come back home for New Year's Eve. I'd go to the same party at the same house with the same kids; it'd be great to catch up with everyone.
Only this year I decided to drop acid.
My friend and I thought it would be hilarious. We couldn't tell anyone else, because (unlike alcohol binges and date rape) recreational drug use was still considered unacceptable by our country peers. She was still living with her parents, so I got a hotel room in the nearest city. The plan was to take the LSD, hit the party, ?trip balls,? and get her boyfriend to drive us back to hotel whenever we decided we'd had enough. My only request was, "Please don't fuck your boyfriend in here tonight, because I don't have anywhere else to go."
Of course, her boyfriend wasn't in on the plan, or the drugs. He quickly grew suspicious of our unstoppable giggling, then majorly overreacted when he found out its cause. He was furious, and she was way too high to make any sort of sense. So they spent the whole night fighting in a back room, finally leaving the party to sort things out.
I was, apparently, out of my mind when I decided to drive myself back to the hotel. As I climbed in my car, I noticed a few sideways glances in my direction. People were talking about me. I was sure of it. My paranoid inner dialogue went something like this:
What the fuck? Oh, God what did you do? Shit. This isn't your car. THIS ISN'T YOUR CAR!! This car doesn't have a steering wheel!! Our car totally has a steering wheel. Shit. Shit. Shit. Where the -- HOW DO YOU EVEN DRIVE THIS CAR?!! Be cool. Be cool. Act like you know where you are...
It turns out I was actually in my own car. I was in the back seat of my own car.
As driving was pretty much ruled out, I asked another friend for a ride. She dropped me off at the hotel and I went to my room. Can you guess who wasn't "not fucking her boyfriend" in there?!!
I sat in the parking lot for a while, but it was cold and I was angry, so I eventually came back into the room and turned on the TV. Still, the fucking marathon continued; this was the make-up sex of two teenagers who rarely get to fuck in a bed. When it was over, I devised the most bizarre get-even scheme ever (using the only tools I had available to me at the time): I decided to bore them both to death. I turned on The Weather Channel and we all watched it in total silence for the next five or six hours.
In my head I was totally winning. I had gone completely insane. The next day, after the boyfriend went home, my friend pleaded for my forgiveness and understanding. I responded with a blank stare and the occasional quoting of the day's nationwide weather stats.
Hey Ladies! If you would like to be included on the Waxing Off mailing list for possible inclusion in next month's section, please email managing editor A.J. Daulerio and we'll make some magic.