All families are like a small group of indigenous people.  They have their own special way to make pasta sauce (use Dom’s yellow can as your base) and pie crust (pre-made, naturally. If you focus on the filling, nobody will notice the crust anyways).  They have their own slang (See: pig con-scious [pig kon-shuhs] noun: 1) a person who hogs all the food, consciously), which has evolved over years.

You look like a deranged Easter Bunny.

Most families also have deeply rooted holiday traditions.  For my family, it is watching, and quoting, A Christmas Story (which isn’t necessarily something designated solely for the Christmas season) as often and feverishly as possible.

 “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

“I want an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle!”

“Oh, fudge.”

 Please. That’s child’s play. Rookies quote those lines.  As my brother, sister and I are now all in our 20s, we dig deeper into the script, pulling out obscure references that the average movie watcher wouldn’t usually recognize. Do you know the name of the Lone Ranger’s nephew’s horse? How about Farkus’s crummy, little toadie?  Didn’t think so.

This afternoon, I saw a picture of meatloaf, which immediately led to me saying “Meatloaf, beefloaf, double smeatloaf. I HATE meatloaf.” Oh, Randy.

While I’m not one to rush winter our way, I admit that my anticipation for Christmas is probably on-par with that of a five year old.  If summer has to leave us, and fall will never be one of those people who drops by for a visit and stays indefinitely, then bring it on December.  I’m getting anxious to watch Randy lay there like a slug – his only defense.

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