Holidays.......seriously, tell me when it's over!

I can vaguely recall a moment between the hefty scooping of mounds of mashed potatoes and "round dos" when I uttered the words, "I could stop now and be content, full but not overly full".
That must have been the angel on my right shoulder. She's the one with the new Android and a facebook obsession and the reason why hundreds of my facebook friends were aware that my sister craved a big mac covered in gravy while simultaneously shoveling a centerpiece turkey make of fudge stripe cookies and candy corn. She is also the reason why my hands were too occupied to take another mouthful and managed my ability to speak the words about forfeiting the extra's on my plate without spitting stuffing and french style green beans (with extra butter) all over Lourdes who sat on the other side of the circular Lighting McQueen kiddie table where we dined (that was facebook documented as well). I love this angel; who said technology was the reason for childhood obesity?
It's the other angel, the one of my left who's too old fashion to learn the technological jargon it takes to survive in year 2010 but too lazy to walk outside and live like its 1930 where people relied on the physical movement of more than just their opposable thumbs. This angel sent me over for seconds followed by a couple of backyard fire roasted smores because "how could I have some more if I haven't had any yet?".
It's now Saturday, two days proceeding our Kingful feast and I still feel full. I still eat, but I'm pretty sure plate two is still lurking around in my digestive track somewhere. (my apologies for the graphics)

The funny thing these days about Holiday's though, is not that we were forced even now at 25 and 30 to crouch our stubby but too long for two feet chair legs at the kids table (we chose this) or that we feast in a garage turned movie theater in South Carolina and not my hometown of Pittsburgh where the house we grew up in hardly had a living room much less a theater, but it's the fact that had I not chosen to sit across from Lourdes at a table smaller than the ones we were subjected to as children, chances are I would not have known the person stuffing their unfamiliar face with my mother's "just dump it all in" stuffing or my oldest sister Ingret's "chocolate and not quite peanut butter" pie. Had it not been for the familar loudeness of previously all Puerto Rican and now a mut style melting pot of Spanish speaking people, I could have easily confused my parent's house for a random church soup kitchen with air freshners. I wouldn't be able to give any of these visitors a couple of bucks without worrying that they would "just buy booze with it" either.
I guess that's not funny; it's sad actually. Holiday's just aren't the same anymore. At least when I was younger I expected my drunken Uncle Berto to stutter step while attempting to keep his balance and admire the shimmer of his moisten lips (because he was always "wetting his whistle") and laugh as he insulted our sega sonic playing skills. We laughed on cue when our aunts, uncles and parents told stories we didnt understand and teased us for never making to the adult table regardless of how many years past and how old we were.
It's hard to laugh now. There's nothing funny about contemplating punching a drunk lady you intentionally blocked all memory of previous encounters with because drunk or sober she was more annoying than the nasaly asain looking man who did the parrots voice in aladdin. I could, in all honesty, rant about literally feeling my blood boil as she insisted on cleaning my mothers kitchen which resulted in nothing more than a waste of water and well, not so much soap because she clearly didn't use any and the wastefulness of an entire chicken who sacrificed its life only to be bioled in a pot of an odd lime base broth because drunken lady whose name I can't remember was not satisfied alone with the plethora of turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings of a thanksgiving dinner. No, drunken lady wanted CHICKEN SOUP! Ugh...we're leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow; I pray I don't see drunken lady again...

-stephanie

We made it!!!

After a late start and an excruciatingly long 10hour+ drive, Lourdes and I arrived at our parents house in South Carolina around 7:30 last night. It was obvious when we had reached the state line: the term road rage doesn't even begin to explain the depths of my sisters driving skills. I beleive at one point after being cut off by a driver in an obvious hurry, her furry sounded something like..."GGGGRRRRR, if my dog and sister weren't in the car with me I'd (explicit) cut you the(explicit) off!" You would think for a moment that Levi (said dog) and I would be grateful for the fact that she had taken our lives and the apparent danger she threatened into consideration. BUT (and this is a big BUT here) before she had even finished her threatening rant to the man who could not hear her, let's just say: foot, gas, quick serve, change lanes, Lourdes and a sigh of relief--Apparently dog and sister lives aren't as precious as she had originally imagined.
Anyways, the thought of detailing any of the hardly entertaining events of the voyage last night was more exhausting than the trip itself, especially when I arrived to have, within minutes, a belly full of mom's rice and mami olga meat (that means nothing to you but the world to me). Aside from witnessing my hundred pound sister down Micky d's breakfast, a snickers ice cream bar, a whopper jr, and listen to her bitch about how she wanted "to sit comfy with a coke but the moronic bitch gave her diet", the trip was fairly uneventful. However, a weekend back with the rest of the family, mom's new hardwood floors and Levi's neglectfully long nails, Thanksgiving dinner, baking and booze...hmmmmm-this should be interesting.
Updates to come...

-steph

I've decided to add another member to my family!!! No, I haven't purposely ceased to oblige to the every day command of my phone at the exact moment its alarm obnoxiously vibrates with a bright red screen that screams "PILL" in oversized lettering, BUT I will be responsible for the life of a furry little friend whose current name is "playboy".
Trust me, I didn't choose the name; it WILL be changed. I can do that, right? Rabbits don't actually respond to names, do they? I mean, I'm not even fully sure my dog understand what his real name is, considering my sister and I have turned "Levi" into a series of nicknames, all derived for one logical reason or another. Well, maybe not logical, but according to our thought process, they make sense. Without giving you the exact train of thought that led to each, let's just say he responds, or at least appears to respond to the following: Levi, Keagan, Bubbas, Bubz, and shithead.

A rabbit on the other hand, they...
Hmmmm, well, I don't have a legitimate reason for believing they are incapable of learning their names, not any aside from my brief encounters with wildlife anyways. Although, when my sister, Lourdes, and I attempted to save a bunny from the death trap of her trailblazer's tire, we fed it kittens milk from a tiny bottle until it became big and bouncy enough to realize it absolutely despised us to which we decided to set him free. To this day, I think he hangs out by our house where we let him go, but runs like hell when he see's either of us within 10 feet of him(Maybe they are smarter than I thought).
I am assumming this particular rabbit I am being given, despite being named "Playboy", ((clearly not his fault)), is fairly intelligent. I am told he is potty trained...in other words, he does his number 1 & 2 businness in a litter box. HAHAHA. Who needs a cat?
This is pretty impressive though. I mean, I know grown men (who shall remain nameless) who can hardly manage this task. But then again, perhaps rabbits are smarter than men...
hmmmmmmm....maybe I'll have to call him Playboy afterall....((UGH)).

-Steph

blogging is for narcissists

So, how does this work exactly?
According to what I’ve learned from watching Julie and Julia, bloggers have a mission; a goal of sorts. Now, mind you I never read the aforementioned “Julie’s” blog of soufflés and struggle of simmering, but in a restless redbox moment a few weeks ago, I found myself debating between this particular flick and Toy Story 3. All jokes aside, I really did want to stare mindlessly at the blindingly bright screen and imagine for a second that I could make it to “infinity and beyond” if I really set my mind to it, but I could feel the anxiety building up in a line of anticipation behind me and while I contemplated taking the last copy available, I figured karma was a bitch and God would never forgive me for being spiteful to children; I chose the more adult-like cooking film, obviously.
But anyways, I hate to disappoint you, but unlike Julie, I have no intended goal for writing this; I won’t be charming you with my endless efforts to make the best beef stew. I’m just an aimless blogger, and when you’re finished with your overwhelming sighs of hatred at my making you read the past few sentences only to learn that nothing will ever come of it, I’ll let you in on the realization of my life, the epiphany of life itself: WE ARE ALL AIMLESS. Truth is, I don’t have a clue what will be worth bitching and moaning about day after day. Regardless, the fact is, whether anyone reads this or not, its therapeutic to write it, because I like the sound of my own voice, or in this case, the tapping of my thoughts being typed away on the bright white keys of the brand new Sony laptop I couldn’t afford but purchased anyway. Blogging appeals to my narcissism…not to mention my need to complain about the day...just tell me when its over…
-Stephanie