Scary Mommy's Guide to Surviving the Holidays Read online

  5. Enjoy brief moment of pleasure when she compliments your outfit. Experience deflation of ego when immediately following the compliment she insults you by saying your dress is very effective at hiding your, as she puts it, “bit of a tummy.”

  6. Sneakily grab the sage and apply liberally to stuffing when MIL starts to lament having another holiday season here without a grandchild. Briefly stoop to her level as you tell her that you might not be pregnant yet, but her son sure seems to be enjoying the trying phase.

  7. Smile gratefully as your husband brings you a glass of wine and raises his eyebrows to check on you. Chug accordingly.

  8. Suggest leaving some stuffing without sausage for non-meat-eaters like yourself. Remain calm when MIL dumps sausage into all the stuffing and then claims she didn’t hear you despite her frequent interjections to the conversation happening down the hall. Practice your yoga breathing when she tells you to just “eat around it.”

  9. Throw stuffing into the oven. Resist urge to toss MIL in as well. Get out of the kitchen, find a second glass of wine and commiserate with your sister-in-law (who was ousted from the kitchen after last year’s sweet potato fiasco) until it’s time to eat.

  10. Try not to gloat too hard when people praise your stuffing. Tell them you used a secret recipe and lift your glass to your MIL in a silent salute.

  Until Christmas Eve, my worthy opponent.

  17

  CLAIM-TO-FAME UPSIDE-DOWN PUMPKIN CAKE

  by Natalie Hoage

  If you’re somebody who loves to cook, you have a recipe that is yours with a capital Y. It’s the recipe that people expect you to bring any time you come to a function. The one you won’t give out to family and friends because you don’t want them stealing your thunder. It’s yours and yours alone.

  NOTE: If you are my friend or family member, quit reading now! You cannot have this recipe! For anybody else, here’s my claim to fame . . .

  1 (29-ounce) can pumpkin purée

  2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon ground cloves

  salt to taste

  1 ¾ cups white sugar

  3 eggs

  1 (12-fluid-ounce) can evaporated milk

  1 (18.25-ounce) package yellow cake mix

  1 cup chopped nuts

  1 cup butter, melted

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Line a 9-by-13-inch baking dish with parchment paper (make sure that it overlaps on all sides because you need to flip the cake after it cools).

  In a mixing bowl, blend pumpkin, cinnamon, cloves, salt, sugar, eggs, and milk. Pour mixture into a 9-by-13-inch baking dish. Sprinkle dry cake mix and nuts over the batter.

  Pour melted butter over the cake.

  Bake for 60 minutes and let cool. The cake will be “liquidy” at first, but will solidify as it cools. Once it cools, place a serving platter on top of the baking dish and flip it over so that the “crust” is on bottom. Serve with whipped cream.

  I swear, once you serve this, you will never have to make another pumpkin pie again!

  18

  THE DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY DRINKING GAME

  by Kathryn Leehane

  Thanksgiving is a joyful time to give thanks for all of our blessings and good fortune. It’s an annual celebration of family, loved ones, and “the harvest,” right? Sure. But it’s also a time of family bickering, passive-aggressive comments, colossal fuckups, social faux pas, and domestic disasters.

  My husband and I have hosted Thanksgiving dinner for the past fifteen years, and we’ve experienced all of these things firsthand. To stay sane during these annual “celebrations,” we have developed our own coping strategy. We call it the Dysfunctional Family Drinking Game. It is a secret game that only the two of us play, and it is designed to make us laugh at the foibles and follies during Thanksgiving and any large holiday gathering. Wanna know how to play?

  Rules of the Dysfunctional Family Drinking Game:

  Start out by pouring each player a stiff drink. Make sure to have a bottle of something over eighty proof ready with shot glasses nearby. You’ll need them later. (If you don’t drink, you can substitute alcohol with anything delicious, like chocolate or bacon.)

  Any time one of the following happens, you have to follow the corresponding rule:

  BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT: Your family, you take a sip.

  LATE ARRIVAL: Your family, you do a shot.

  FOOD FAUX PAS: Your family, your partner takes a sip.

  SOCIAL FAUX PAS: Your family, you take a sip.

  KID CHAOS: Social! You both take a sip.

  BLATANT CRITICISM: Count up the steps between you and the family member in the family tree. Everyone takes that number of sips.

  BODILY FUNCTIONS: Your family, you get to make up a new rule for the night.

  SPILT DRINK: Whoever spilt it, shoots it.

  Based on past experiences, here’s my prediction for how this game will proceed in our house this year. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

  Round 1: The Guests’ Arrival

  Upon greeting me, my mother will tell me how great I look with a few more pounds on my frame. How nice of her to notice that I’ve put on a little weight. [Backhanded Compliment: one sip for me.]

  My husband’s distant uncle will make an uncomfortable sexual innuendo to me about how I keep getting better and better. (And then he will wink.) [Social Faux Pas: one sip for my husband. And one for me too, because that’s just weird.]

  My brother will bring some slightly stale donuts (perhaps rejects from his Magic: the Gathering gaming group?) for dessert. [Food Faux Pas: one sip for my husband.]

  My husband’s father will note that we still haven’t fixed the back door. “And it’s been three years!” [Blatant Criticism: one sip for my husband and two for me for good measure.]

  My cousin will bring her obviously sick and feverish daughter to the festivities. Even worse, she’ll try to pass her daughter’s green mucus off as allergies. [Social Faux Pas: one sip for me.]

  Round One Score: my husband—three sips; me—five sips.

  This equals approximately one entire beverage each because my husband takes bigger sips than I do. Even though I’m smaller than he is, we’ll be about even at this point and both holding steady—and just the littlest bit buzzed.

  Round 2: The Thanksgiving Meal

  My mother-in-law will comment on how surprised she is that the turkey is cooked so evenly despite how dirty the oven is. [Backhanded Compliment: one sip for my husband.]

  My husband’s cousin will show up halfway through the meal mumbling something about traffic. From the other side of town. [Late Arrival: one shot for my husband.]

  My sister, who doesn’t have kids or work with kids or know anything about kids, will give me advice on how to discipline my children. [Multiple Infractions: we both just finish off our drinks and pour new ones.]

  My son will pick up a dinner roll, sniff it, lick it, and then put it back in the bread basket. [Double Whammy! Food Faux Pas and Kid Chaos: Social! Two sips for each of us.]

  My daughter will secretly feed her turkey to the dog. [Kid Chaos: Social! One sip for each of us.]

  My grandma will say, “What IS this? I’ve NEVER had cranberry sauce like this before!” And not in a good way. [Blatant Criticism: three sips for my husband and one sip for me.]

  I will burn the crispy leeks, and they will never make it to the pea dish. [To hell with it—one shot for me.]

  My mother and brother will get in an argument about something completely ridiculous. [Social Faux Pas: one sip for me.]

  My grandma will rip one during dessert. [Bodily Function—I make up a new rule: if my husband’s family member leaves before dishes get started, he has to make the next round of drinks.]

  Round Two Score: my husband—about three drinks; me—about three drinks. (G
ood thing we won’t need to drive anywhere.)

  Round 3: The Aftermath

  After eating the kids’ Thanksgiving artwork and too much turkey meat, the dog will puke behind the couch. Bonus points for holiday-themed puke? [Bodily Functions: one sip for each of us.]

  I will spill wine on the white carpet. Red wine, of course. [Spilt Drink: one shot for me.]

  My sister and brother will bail right after dessert and conveniently just before dishes. [New Rule: I make the next round of drinks.]

  My mother-in-law will pack up all of the white meat to take home with her while she thinks no one is looking. [Food Faux Pas: one sip for my husband.]

  My husband’s uncle will take the wine he gave me as a hostess gift when he leaves. [Social Faux Pas: we will both just finish the rest of the open wine after the guests leave.]

  Round Three Score: Does it really matter at this point? Game OVER! We will both win (considerably inebriated) and celebrate the holiday to the fullest!

  I highly recommend you try this game at your next family gathering. Warning: you may very well get drunk while playing. So be responsible and don’t drive or use any incendiary devices. Happy Holidays!

  SCARY MOMMY CONFESSIONS

  ★ I try to drop subtle little hints around the kids about Santa not being real. Just over it, and the sooner they know the truth, the sooner there’ll be a little bit of pressure off me.

  ★ Having an eight-day holiday just means eight days of temper tantrums and ungratefulness. Next year I’m converting.

  ★ I always get jealous around Christmastime. They get turkey or ham; we get fried potato pancakes. That’s just not fair.

  ★ If I hear “O Holy Night” one more time I am going to throw a grade-A, epic, as-seen-on-YouTube temper tantrum. Thousands of Christmas carols and every store picks that one.

  ★ The lights, the food, the presents—a thousand minutes to make one day perfect. Five minutes in, the children are whining, the presents are tossed around. It’s 8:30 a.m., I need wine.

  ★ Every Christmas feels like a tug-of-war between my parents and my in-laws. Next year, I’m calling it all off and we’re going to Disney World.

  ★ My son busted my husband setting out Santa gifts one year when he was small. I told him that it was time for him to know the truth: Dad is really Santa, and it is our family’s deepest secret that he can never ever tell, or else the Christmas magic will die forever.

  19

  CHRISTMAS MOURNING

  by Jill Smokler

  I love Christmas.

  I love decorating gingerbread houses and consuming days’ worth of calories in eggnog alone.

  I love the elegant glow of white lights and the tacky glare of the old-school colored ones.

  I love elves and I love Rudolph.

  I love watching It’s a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story.

  I love the smell of real Christmas trees and the ease of fake ones.

  I love the wrapping paper and the gift swaps and the crowded mall sales.

  I love it.

  I love it all.

  Sure, you may say. Me too. That’s why they call it the most wonderful time of the year!

  But there’s one teeny, tiny problem: I’m freaking Jewish.

  Thanks a ton, Mom and Dad.

  For as far back as I can remember, I’ve felt a pang (okay, more like a BANG) of jealousy beginning after Thanksgiving and lasting through Boxing Day. Being Jewish in a land of Christmas joy is kind of like being a kid in a candy shop whose mother won’t let him taste sugar. Instead, he gets to take along a bag of fructose-sweetened, all-natural gummies and is told that they’re just as tasty as the real thing. Bullshit.

  Sure, Hanukkah is fun. We get a week’s worth of presents and as much fried food as we can shove in our faces, and we can spell our holiday sixteen different ways. But it can’t ever compete with the wonder Christmas offers, and we all know it. The promise and the magic and the warm and fuzzy blanket the whole world seems to cuddle under once a year is something we’re just not a part of, a mysterious club we don’t get to join.

  But maybe that’s why Christmas is so magical for me in the first place. There’s no complicated family dynamic clouding my vision or memories of holidays past gone wrong. There’s no fighting in front of the tree or disappointment over first-thing-in-the-morning gifts. No in-law drama or having to be in two places at once. It’s pure and utter fantasy. To me, December 25 is picture perfect happiness, complete with matching plaid pajamas and smiling, joyful faces.

  And that’s how it will always remain.

  20

  HOW TO BUY A CHRISTMAS TREE WITH A PRESCHOOLER AND A KINDERGARTENER

  by Kim Bongiorno

  1. Select the first below-thirty-degree day of the year to do your Christmas tree shopping. Make sure your husband is MIA because of work, if at all possible.

  2. Pick your three-year-old daughter and five-year-old son up from school. Tell them you have a BIG SURPRISE.

  3. Bring them home, make both pee without removing all their clothes, rebundle them, and grab snacks and water, all while batting away screeches of delight and nagging inquiries about the surprise. (“Is Santa here? Are we getting a cookie? Are we going to the airport? Is Max & Ruby on? Are we going to the LEGO store?”)

  4. Get them back in the truck and buckled in.

  5. Try not to go deaf during the drive to charity Christmas tree sale.

  6. Park.

  7. Pull out camera, gloves, and measuring tape.

  8. Hop out of the truck, swinging open the back door with a made-up song about how HUGE a tree you’re gonna get this year.

  9. Look over shoulder.

  10. Realize tree sale doesn’t open for another three hours.

  11. Get back in the truck.

  12. Drive weeping children back home.

  13. Unbundle children, placate them with another annoying episode of Max & Ruby in the family room for her, G-Force (for the thousandth time) in the basement for him.

  14. Console.

  15. Hug.

  16. Wipe tears.

  17. Bribe.

  18. Beg for mercy, swear they can buy the biggest damn tree in the place if they just. Stop. Whining.

  19. Wait three hours.

  20. Make them pee (again).

  21. Bundle them up (again).

  22. Put them in the car with snacks and waters (again).

  23. Call friend to meet you there.

  24. Drive to charity Christmas tree sale (again).

  25. Confirm they are open, seventy-five times.

  26. Tell children you need two Very Special Helpers to pick out the Christmas tree.

  27. Explain to the three-year-old that no, you can’t buy the wooden sign in the shape of a tree OR the tree painted on the side of the trailer.

  28. Watch three-year-old stomp her foot over inability to buy trees that aren’t actually trees until some old dude who works there and has experience with ornery grandchildren distracts her.

  29. Lose the five-year-old amidst the trees.

  30. Find the five-year-old.

  31. Ask for the tall trees.

  32. Lose the three-year-old while walking toward the tall trees.

  33. Find the three-year-old.

  34. Gently remind children that if they run off again they will not get a Christmas tree, or presents, or joy.

  35. Silently pray you don’t have to actually follow through on that.

  36. Feel a twinge of guilt asking two old dudes to heave some nine-foot-tall trees up so you can inspect them before choosing one. The trees. Not the old dudes.

  37. Endure the sobs of your five-year-old, who is insisting he “HATE that tree, MAMA” and wants one of the stacked and bound trees not on display.

  38. Watch three-year-old
try to spear herself with a wrought iron tree stand.

  39. Act all excited about the tree you’ve chosen in an attempt to round up unruly kids, asking old guys to hold it up to take a photo of the kids in front of it.

  40. Watch the kids both start crying and yelling that they want different trees while running in opposite directions.

  41. Tell the frightened old dudes, “We’ll take it.” Force smile.

  42. Watch five-year-old stop crying quickly enough to maneuver himself behind the high school volunteers who are now trying to chainsaw the tree trunk.

  43. Grab five-year-old.

  44. Lose sight of three-year-old (again).

  45. See friends coming.

  46. Find three-year-old when she dashes from behind a display of Douglas firs to join her friends.

  47. Finally see the kids cheer up when all four of them start making fun of you in unison.

  48. Walk away from annoying kids to pay for tree.

  49. Try not to pass out at the price of a nine-foot Christmas tree.

  50. Distract kids with piles of leaves while high school boys take foooooreeeeeveeer to tie the tree to the roof of the truck.

  51. Tell the kids, “It’s time to get in the truck!” and watch three-year-old refuse to go home with you.

  52. Have no problem allowing friend to drive three-year-old in her car back to your house because she’s a pain in the ass anyway. The three-year-old. Not the friend.

  53. Get five-year-old in truck.

  54. Watch high school boys climbing all over car, seeming unsure of what they are doing.

  55. Offer to help.

  56. Be told, “I totally know what I’m doin’, man.”

  57. Contemplate the meaning of being called a man, again. Make New Year’s resolution to not get mistaken for a man.