This delightful, delicious, de-lovely month of December for the year 2002 begins at the bottom of the page, so make your way down there
for all of the sapid details.
December 25th, 2002: Making Small Mention About Christmas with My New “Family”™:
My mom died in April of 2000. My dad got remarried in September of this year. I celebrated Christmas with his new wife, Lois, and her family today. It was surprisingly unawkward. I was projectile vomiting all day yesterday—all over my crazy great aunt’s bathroom floor, toilet paper, curtains, windows, and sink, mind you—so I missed all of the Christmas Eve festivities last night. My sister, Joanie, did not, so she was already there when I drove the 35 minutes from my college home to my dad’s new home in my hometown this morning. There was a lot of small talk-making about my short-lived illness while we waited for Joanie to apply her face and for Lois’s three kids to come back from opening gifts at their grandmother’s house. But Lois made orange rolls like my mom always used to on Christmas mornings, which won her huge bonus points from both my dad and me. Not because I actually ate any of the orange rolls, mind you, but because I’m all about tradition and the fact that Lois is willing to honour my mom’s traditions and accept them as her own. Rock on, New Mom™.
Along the same lines, I’d like to mention that my dad received a pickle ornament a few days before Christmas this year. I had no clue about the significance of the thing and was a little alarmed by its green shininess at first. Then I noticed four other pickle ornaments on the Christmas tree and became quite panicky. Then Dad reminded me of Lois’s last name—Dill. Get it? Dill pickle. Mmm-hmm. Lois said something about him needing his own pickle now that he’s part of the Dill family. I didn’t bother to remind her that in all actuality, she’s part of the Ett family.
Unwrapping gifts was chaos. Between the presents for Lois’s three kids, my sister and me, and Lois and Dad, the entire friggin’ living room was filled, and there was some minor spillage into the kitchen. And of course, we had to unwrap one gift at a time, one person at a time. We had to take a nap after the 5th hour of the process. But the presents were perfect, as was the lunch with Lois’s parents.
And then we went to my mom’s sister’s house, where my cousins/roommates, Bethany and Ethan, were. It was totally informal and exactly the same as it is every year. Except that Dad stayed home with The New “Family”™, which drives me mad in innumerable ways still. But well, I suppose that he’s technically not related to them anymore.
Then Joanie and I grabbed her friend Tiffany (no, seriously, there are real people who actually have that name . . . but yeah, they all live in Ohio), and we went to see the new Hugh Grant movie, Two Weeks Notice. Now Hugh Grant is as beautiful as all get-out, but dangit, does he know how to pick the lamest movies. Almost painful to watch. But well, I’m a woman, and I do like my cheesy romance.
So I would call it a good Christmas. Certainly different. And certainly full of snobs who are evidently unaware that they live in Ashville, OHIO. But I’ve known these snobs my entire life, they’re now My New “Family”™, and I’m pretty good at learning to accept that things just are the way they are. How sweet it is.
December 21st, 2002: In the shower this morning, I decided that it would be really cool if I had been the one to come up with the idea for The Truman Show. It's not my favourite movie by any means, but still, it had a pretty clever premise. So, from now on, I'd like to be referred to as "the girl who conceived the idea for The Truman Show". You should call me that when you talk about me with other people by saying things like, "Yeah, I was talking to Katie Ett the other day—you know, the girl who conceived the idea for The Truman Show—" You should introduce me to your friends in that manner, as well: "I'd like you to meet Katie Ett, who really needs no introduction, as she was the girl to conceive the idea for The Truman Show." I think it's a really believable lie. Plus, it'll be a good starting point for me on my path toward making The Great American Film™.
December 5th, 2002: Last night, my friend Joshrea and I went to see the movie Far From Heaven at our local independent theatre. It was beautiful, I wish I had been a wife in the 50’s, and that’s all I’ll say about that. The movie kind of made me think about something in the middle of it that I just can’t seem to shake, though. This little girl is the wrong colour in the wrong town in the wrong time in America—not that there’s any indication that a time will come when being black in America will be acceptable—and three little boys attack her with stones one day after school. Well, when she was hit in the head with one of them, I immediately thought, “Oooh! That’s gonna leave a mark.” And then I touched my nose, my prized facial feature, to make sure that it was still there and still adorably perfect. It was. But still, it made me think about how strange it is not to have any clue about what could happen to me in the next decade . . .year . . . day . . . hour . . . minute. I could step outside my door, get mauled by a bear incidentally passing through my neighbourhood, and end up with a gimp . . . become a paraplegic . . . or look like Tom Cruise in Vanilla Sky. That’s frightening. And it’s not just about superficial things, either. I could drop out of college tomorrow and become a prostitute rather than a . . . whatever I’m actually going to become. I could have an operation and live the rest of my life as a man. I could have an affair with an older guy and have my head shot off by his wife. I can barely stand to think about it.