(It’s Christmas Eve. We are gathering with my brother and his wife and their two daughters at his wife’s sister’s house. We have had appetizers, and before the main meal we decide to do gifts. We watch my two nieces and their cousin open their gifts, and then my mom gives my brother and his wife their gift from my husband and I. My brother’s mother-in-law also gives each of us a small gift of candy, which is very nice. But other than that, nothing. Except for last year, when they said no gifts because they took an expensive trip, we’ve always exchanged gifts. I figure it’s a lack of communication. They also exchange with my parents on Christmas Day, so I don’t think anything of it. Fast forward to the Friday after Christmas. We go to their house for lunch and to see their gifts and tree. It’s quite obvious they’ve spent a lot of money on Christmas on themselves and on their kids. Later, when we get home I ask my mom if they’d gotten anything from them for Christmas.)

Mom: “We got a container of nuts and a votive holder. They weren’t wrapped. It was like a hostess gift for having Christmas dinner.”

Me: “So, basically the four of them sat there and opened gifts while you and [My Aunt] watched?”

Mom: “Yep.”

(My sister-in-law said she thought they weren’t exchanging this year. My mom said she asked and never got a response. Both of them have great paying jobs. I know my parents spent a lot of money on them and their kids. It just makes me ill how they don’t seem to have any remorse at all. So, from now on, we will not be buying for them — only the kids because it’s not their fault and they’re innocent in all this.)

(It is around the holiday season. I’m at the mall, and you can imagine that it’s pretty packed with a bunch of people doing some last-minute shopping. I am roaming around the parking lot and can’t find any free spots for a good thirty minutes. Lo and behold, I see a large SUV backing out of a parking spot. In my wimpy Civic, I turn my clicker on to signal that I’m claiming this spot. As soon as the SUV completely backs out, I swerve in fast before anyone can see the empty spot. Of course, as I’m about to turn my car off, some Karen lady comes up to me with her car right behind mine.)

The Karen: “You took my spot!”

Me: “But you were nowhere in sight when I was waiting for it!”

(She keeps yelling and I honestly don’t have time for her bulls***.)

Me: “It’s the holiday season and I’m literally going to be in and out of the store; this isn’t something to be arguing about.”

The Karen: “That wasn’t the point of coming to you! You get out of the parking spot or else I’ll call security to remove your car!”

Me: “Maybe you should call Santa and his reindeers to hitch my car out of the spot.” *locks the door and walks away*

I am celebrating December 24th with my boss and peers — a motley crew of different South American backgrounds. My boss, a forty-something Peruvian, closes the door and hangs the “I’ll be back in five minutes” sign up while his wife pops a bottle of champagne to celebrate.

The sign is completely futile, and my boss has to remind every other persistent passerby trying to pry open the door with their bare hands in the presence of the sign, in the next five minutes, that we’re closed.

This leads me to the conclusion that if you do this, you’re either too stupid or you do it on purpose.

(It is almost Christmas Eve, so there are a lot of “special meats” available, like lobster or lamb, specially made for fondue or gourmet. There’s a customer who’s asking for my help.)

Customer: “Hi. What’s the price on the lamb?”

Me: “It’s [total] per kg so it’s [grand total] in total for this one.”

Customer: “Oh, okay. Um, I have another question. What’s the lamb made out of? I mean, from which animal is it, like cow or chicken?”

(This story happens when I am five, visiting relatives. It’s important to note that, in Italy, there are three traditional Christmas holiday figures: “Daddy Christmas” — Santa Claus — Baby Jesus, and La Befana. In my household, it’s Daddy Christmas that delivers the presents.)

Aunt: “By the way, [My Name], have you written your letter to Baby Jesus yet? What have you asked Him?”

Me: “No, I’ve written a letter to Santa; why write to Baby Jesus?”

Aunt: “What do you mean, ‘Why write to Baby Jesus’? He’s the one who gives gifts.”

Me: *confused* “I mean, yes, He has given me the sky and the birds and Mommy and Daddy, but Daddy Christmas gives me toys and candy.”

Aunt: *puts a hand on my shoulder* “Yes, but He loves giving toys; if you don’t ask Him for toys and ask somebody else, He’s gonna cry and get mad and then tell the Befana, who then will kidnap you!”

Me: “B-but…”

(I then started to cry, loudly. When I told my mother a few hours after, she tried to reconcile the two things, telling me that Baby Jesus just made the gifts, while La Befana and Daddy Christmas delivered them, which worked. However, every year until I no longer believed in them, my aunt would tell me to write a letter to Baby Jesus and give it to her. This was a bit of a mixed blessing, given that it taught me to try to avoid her, since her behaviour extended to other aspects of life as well, and to this day she cannot accept the idea of evolving family traditions.)

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