Merry Christmas, You Little Bastard

There’s a little rumor in our family that 1 or more of the 5 of us kids may not be our dad’s.  The rumor stems from the night my mom had a couple too many glasses of wine and told us that 1 or more of us may not be our dad’s. 

“At least one of you is a bastard child,” she reminisced, swilling her wine, “but definitely not all five.  Or maybe all five. Yeah, actually, I’m pretty sure all five of you are bastards.  Hell, it was a long time ago…who can remember?  And who gives a shit?”

Our sentiments exactly.

There is always the possibility that she was just making a general statement about our character—my brothers and sisters, in particular, are huge assholes—but Mom always was a social butterfly, so we’re pretty sure she was speaking from the illegitimate child angle.  Which totally worked for us in several different scenarios after she came clean:

“Holy SHIT where’d you get that nose?  Your bio dad must have been Pinocchio.” 

“But Pinocchio was a puppet.”

“And this is Mom we’re talking about.”

“Dammit, Pinocchio’s my father, isn’t he?”

Or…

“You’re such a douchebag…you must have gotten that from your bio father’s side of the family.  I hear they’re awful.  And ugly.”   And ugly is always such a useful and effective phrase to throw onto the end of any bio father accusation.  (You’re welc for the tip.)

The other night, a few of us were at Dad’s (?) house, where he has compiled the biggest, most adorable framed collection of Santa pictures, beginning with Mom sitting on Santa’s lap circa 1975, pregnant with my older sister (who we’re almost positive is NOT Dad’s), ending the year that my older sister was no younger than 23—yes, 23—years old. And we would have done them for longer if they could have gotten me to put the damned beer down long enough to pose for one in college.  Because even though we’re a total random mashup of genes thanks to Mom, we have a motto when it comes to Santa pictures:  No bastard left behind.

We loved those damned Santa pictures.

As my dad, my youngest brother, my best friend, and I stood gazing at the pictures, my youngest brother pointed to one of the pictures toward the bottom and mused aloud, “Where the hell was I in that one?  Because look, in the one before it, there I am…”

We all stood silently for a minute, puzzling over it. Finally, I ventured a guess:  “Perhaps that was during a weekend with your biological father…”

Before anyone could respond, Dad (?) chimed in with:  “Or it might have been on one of the ‘every other Wednesdays’…”

Dad (?) and I laughed so hard that we cried, while my little brother just started crying without the laughing part. That made it even funnier to Dad (?)  and me (Little bro must have gotten his sensitive genes from his biological father’s side of the family) until my best friend had to go and ruin it for us:

“Or it might be that you dumbasses are looking in the wrong spot,” she pointed out.  “There’s the picture you’re looking for.”  And yep, she was right.  My youngest brother’s lazy eye had just lazed its way a little too far to the left—just a tad further right was the picture we’d been looking for.  (His bio dad must have had some kind of wonky eye thing.)

Really, BFF, you totally ruined the story for us.  It would have been a lot trashier if he really had been at some biological father’s for the weekend, dammit.  Doesn’t my best friend understand that I’m trying to write a BLOG here?  If everything is normal in our lives, the huge piles of imaginary money I make from blogging will stop pouring in…

If this post left you hungry for a story about a normal family on Christmas (yeah, a normal FAKE family—no coincidence), I’ve got you covered.  I’ve got two Debbie Macomber Christmas books that I’m willing to unload on a random person who either comments on this post or, if you don’t want to be associated with the trash on this blog, e-mails me at info@trashyblog.com.   (Trust me, peeps, I get it.  I use a fake name so as not to be associated with myself, for eff’s sake.  If only I could do it in real life, huh?)

This offer is extended to you, too, ex-boyfriends who don’t want to be caught publicly stalking me— even though I’ve sent the link to every single one of you and asked you to stalk me.  That even includes the one with the crotchal red bumps that he swore were not an STD.  Riiiiiiiight.  Don’t worry, clean readers, I dated him before my skanky days, and just to be safe, I’ve asked him to stand in the corner of the blog while he’s visiting so that his lesions don’t touch anything.

Now, if you don’t know me well enough by now, understand that these books are in no way, shape, or form the latest by Debbie Macomber—nor are they even new versions of the books.  They were bought at the secondhand bookstore for $1.49 apiece, and then they were read by me.  I love books, dammit.  But make no mistake:  They are hardbacks in great condition—my book guy doesn’t eff around.  There may be bathwater stains on a page or two, but I promise that there are no others.  They’re not that type of book, perverts.  (And if there are, one of them is actually inscribed to a lady named Betty, so you’d have to ask her.)

I’m also throwing in a Christmas pickle, and again, perverts, it’s not that kind of pickle. It’s also not a real pickle. (That last sentence was for my little sister.  We’re convinced that her bio dad was an idiot who only too readily passed on the gene.)  If you hadn’t heard of it, hiding a glass pickle in the tree is a cute German pickle tradition.  The finder gets a prize or has good luck for the year or some variation of the two.

 

 

I’ll announce the unfortunate winner on next week’s post.  That way, I can get it into the mail and you’ll have something sweet to read--instead of this trash--in time for Christmas.

 

And by the way:  Holy shit, no, Debbie Macomber doesn't know about this giveaway.  And don't tell her.  She'd probably be pissed to be associated with the likes of this blog, poor thing.

And if nobody wants the pickle or books (REALLY??), I’ll pass them on to one of the secret pals I have from one of my many mom groups.  See?  Everybody wins. Except maybe my secret pal.  But who cares about her, anyway?