It’s nine-thirty in the morning on a Football Sunday.

Crap. Snow is falling and the sidewalk looks slick, so we struggle into long underwear and hiking boots. It’s finally time to help my boyfriend’s brother move his stuff out of my boyfriend’s house and into his new place. We are not happy to be pressed into service on a slushy, cold, Football Sunday, but at least he’s leaving. We had told him in advance that we’d help until the noon kickoff.

By the time we get to E’s place, Brother has started piling random crap in the back of the U-Haul in no practical fashion. There is slush all over E’s floors, clothes on hangers are strewn around the living room, half-packed boxes lay open in the dining room, and Brother is flinging things haphazardly into a laundry basket.

“You said you were packed,” I say accusingly. “You didn’t use any of the good boxes I brought you.”

“I am packed. And I had these boxes,” he said, gesturing to a pile. “Those can go, by the way.”

I already want to curse him because seriously? He’s had months to pack. He’s had the key to his new place for over a week and hasn’t moved a damn thing. He waits for a snowy weekend when he knows everyone would rather be at the bar for the games. He ASKED for good boxes and I brought him some, the nice ones with handles and lids.

And now I am carrying a Crock-Pot box held together with duct tape, with a block of knives poking dangerously out the top.

I lug it out to the truck and hop into the back, pushing things around to make space for the couch, the chairs, the big television, and all the other stuff he’s been storing in the basement since he got kicked out of his old place and had to move in with E five months ago. It will be so good to have him gone, I tell myself as I shuffle and stack, just deal with this for one more day, one more day…

“Everything’s out of the upstairs,” Brother says when the truck is about three-quarters full. “Let’s go.”

“You still have a bunch of boxes in your room,” E points out.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t decided about those. I might give that stuff to the Salvation Army, I dunno. But why move them twice?”

“Because they are taking up space in MY HOUSE,” E says flatly.

“Whatever.”

“We’re not making a trip till this truck is full,” I announce, so we troop down to the basement. I start grabbing things and Brother stops me on every other item – not sure about this, might give that away. It’s classic Brother, never making decisions, waiting till the last minute for everything and still blithering, expecting everyone to sympathize with poor him.* Five months of tension finally snap, and out comes The Crazy.

“What do you mean you haven’t DECIDED?”

“I just need to think for a day or two if I should keep that – ”

“You have had MANY days. You had Saturday. And Friday. And all last week while you had your new place. And all the last five months while you kept talking about moving out, to pack properly and make these decisions. Do not call people to get up early on a Sunday and help you when you haven’t done your part! You are wasting our time, so get your shit together!”

I storm off with a box, not caring if it was meant to go or not. It was going.

I felt bad for a little bit. But good GOD, he was on my last nerve, after everything he’s done to E, his own little brother who took him in, and after everything he’s done to take advantage of both of us – up to and including opening MY Christmas presents and eating MY food while he gambled away his paychecks and borrowed money because he was broke  – E and I used to practically live at his place, and lately we haven’t even slept there because Brother has made it so miserable. It was that bad.

We finish loading the truck and drive to the new place. I carry an armload of his on-hanger shirts upstairs and lay them on his bed.

“You can hang those up,” he calls

“No, I’m making that your ‘deal with it’ pile,” I say, stomping out to the truck to get more. I could have brought them all in one load if they’d been in a box.

E and I schlepped back and forth angrily for another hour. We were late for kickoff, we were wet and hungry (who asks for moving help and doesn’t have pizza or beer?!), and when we left, Brother asked when we’d be back.

I told E later that I felt a bit bad for yelling. “Don’t,” he laughed. “He deserved it, and it was pretty funny. He kept looking at me like I could somehow shut you up, and I just smiled and said ’she’s right, dude.’”

I think I secretly hoped that he would change, that maybe if he heard from someone other than his dad or his little brother – who has fought with him all his life and told him this a thousand times – that he’s a rude and irresponsible bum, maybe it would make something click. You know, confirmation from a third party. But I realize now that I may as well have been yelling in Welsh, for all it was worth. E explained to me that his brother is like a dog: he hears loud noises and sees angry looks from humans, but he cannot associate them with his actions.

“How was moving?” E’s best friend asks when we get to the bar. Said friend is familiar with the horrible living situation, of course.

E tells my story.

And I get a slow clap.

———————-

* There were actually several other instances where he treated E and me like total crap that day, but they make the story too long. Trust me. He deserved this.

Ah, Boxing Day.

I stole it from the British.

This might be my favorite holiday.

I’m sitting at my computer in my cozy new L.L. Bean cable-knit sweater, checking out digital camera reviews so I can spend my Christmas money on something fabulous. My cat is playing with crumpled wrapping paper. I hung my new ornament on my little tree. I have leftover pie and Christmas lasagna in the fridge.

I am alone and I have absolutely nowhere I have to go today.

It’s great.

I always feel a little relieved when Christmas is over. No more people giving me presents in the office and me being embarrassed because I didn’t get them anything. No more pressure to run, run, run to every store to find something perfect for everyone. No more constantly checking the bank account. No more articles about the political incorrectness of nativity scenes. No more family drama (not my family, E’s, but mine by extension) about who is going where for Christmas.

This year I was determined to go into the holiday season with no expectations. I decided I wouldn’t force myself to be merry. I wouldn’t stress over holiday parties and baking cookies for everyone in the office. I would enjoy the festivities and shun the stress from within.

I went AWOL for most of the month of December, not really blogging, not even really reading blogs that much (sorry) but really just spending a little more time with myself and focusing on staying calm. Christmas, oddly enough, sets off my depression AND my anxiety issues. I think I let those get the best of me last year, and I was a total Grinch. Looking back on last year’s Christmas Day post and the later one about Christmas presents,* I can tell I was pretty unhappy. Pressured.

All right – I was straight up whackjobby. And for what? I just re-read those posts and the Crazy Alert flashed Code Red.

So this year, in the traditional season of giving and selflessness, I got selfish with my time and my space because frankly, I think it’s what I needed.

It worked. And I had a good Christmas this year.

I wasn’t mean or anything. I just told myself that it was okay to not be a merry little elf every day, and to take those days one at a time, starting afresh each morning. Maybe I lowered the bar for myself, but I did it with my mental health in mind and I think that’s a fine enough reason.

Today I wish you a merry Boxing Day, because today I am celebrating the fact that I made it through.

And anyone who was afraid of having a lousy Christmas season – because of family issues, because of a memory or a loss, because of ANYTHING – guess what? YOU made it too! You are alive. You are present. And it’s a new day.

So open a box of something for Boxing Day and take some time, even if it’s only five minutes while you hide in a locked bathroom to get away from your nuts family, and congratulate yourself. You deserve it.

———————

* I re-covered the rocking chair that set off this rant, and it now resides happily in my new living room where I do have enough space for it. What a difference a year and three yards of fabric can make!

“Honey? Where’s the other present your mom sent me? You said there were two.”

“Yours are the ones with the red ribbons.”

I dig in the box. I opened one gift yesterday, so there should be another red ribbon somewhere. Instead, I find an unwrapped set of very cute pajamas.

“Did you open my present?”

“No, why?”

“Cause I don’t think these size small PJs are for you, and they’re opened right here by your t-shirts.”

“I didn’t open anything of mine. What t-shirts?”

I hold up the Life is Good shirts with a cyclist and a football player. E grabs his hair and curses under his breath and I know who did it. It’s the person whose presents aren’t even in that box.

It’s been a stressful two weeks dealing with my boyfriend’s older brother. Bro moved into E’s place this summer after he couldn’t pay his bills anymore. He was fired because he refused to conform to a simple rule, but he wouldn’t let The Man tell him what to do. Nor would he sign up for unemployment, because that’s for losers. Noble. So he took over half of E’s one-bedroom apartment and has been living on a waiter’s tips and a sense of entitlement.

He doesn’t even try.

It’s only gotten worse since he moved in, and these last few weeks we have been DESPERATE to get him out. But it’s a double-edged sword because E is thoroughly convinced that Bro is just going to make a financial mess of himself again and land on the doorstep some night, drunk and stoned, demanding to move back in. And E, with a deep resentment barely overridden by his sense of fraternal obligation, will let him. And they both know it.

But Bro has finally found an apartment and put down a deposit. He’s got the keys. I very kindly (read: pushily) provided him with a dozen of the sturdy boxes we use at The Hospital and told him that if he needed more, I’d hook him up. He packed five of them and has moved exactly one.

In the spirit of Christmas and the love I bear for my boyfriend, GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.

Quit slacking and mooching off him. Don’t whine to us about how poor you are when we know you blow all your money on your vices, legal and otherwise. Quit leaving a mess everywhere. Open your own damn Christmas presents. Don’t eat the food we bought for ourselves. Stop turning the furnace up to 75 and not contributing to the gas bill. Quit waking us up in the morning because you want to talk about nothing. On that note, quit keeping us up at night because you’re drunk and want to talk and sing Miley Cyrus songs.

E and I sleep at my place a lot now because he just can’t stand being at his own apartment anymore. I love having him over, but that’s just stupid and wrong to feel pushed out of your own place like that. He is so stressed and angry and it hurts my heart to see him like this. It’s not that E hasn’t tried, both nicely and occasionally in anger, to wake Bro up to what he’s doing. But it’s all a joke to him. E wouldn’t REALLY throw him out, right? Ha ha ha!

We are ready to cut him.

(Fill glass with water so as not to have to hold up bottle of Bud Select for toast)

Thank you all so much for coming tonight to celebrate with us as we welcome Groom into our family. I’m Rebekah, Bride’s sister – her OLDER sister, which means I have had more than twenty-five years to learn an awful lot about her. Those of you who knew us growing up may recall that Bride and I had a tendency to butt heads – yeah, keep it down over in the cheap seats! (roll eyes and smile at laughing family) –  I was always accusing her of being a copycat and she always complained that I was telling her what to do.

And there will be more on that in a minute. (evil wink at Bride as she makes a fake-scared face)

As Bride and I have matured – if you can call it that (Bride snickers) – we’ve come to realize that our head-butting was not because we were so different, it’s because we’re really so much alike. (Mom gets teary) We understand each other a lot better now, and one of the reasons we did clash often is because Bride, like me, is very independent and likes to do things her own way.

And I’m proud to say that as independent as she always has been, Bride has learned that being independent doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone. You can be independent and find love. She knows she can be an independent woman and form a strong partnership and still do things her way – as long as her partner is a great man like Groom who will let her get away with it. (Pause for great, roaring laughter as Groom acknowledges this with nod and a big smile)

Bride and I have gone down different paths and I can no longer call her my little copycat, but as her big sister I still reserve the right to tell her what to do once in awhile. So, Bride and Groom, I want to tell you to do this right now: look at your families. Right here in this room you have almost 170 years of marriage in your immediate families alone: Groom’s Parents, Bride’s Parents, and both sets of Bride’s Grandparents (all Grandparents start to tear up). Of course this does not even include the marriages of Groom’s Grandparents, who are no longer with us.

So copycat that, because your families have set this example for you. We love you and we are all behind you every step of the way. (Mom cries, Bride sniffles)

I’d like to invite everyone to raise their glasses now to Bride and Groom. To everyone who stands behind you and for everything that you have ahead of you – cheers.

(Toast with water glass, then sit down and grab desperately for beer and try not to cry too)

This is a post testing the WP2Tumblr plugin that’s supposed to be an option for putting some of my blog posts directly to my Tumblr.

Yes, I started a Tumblr.

My intention is to use it to post SOME of my stuff because my family always asks me about my blog and why they can’t read it – especially now that I’m being asked to do reviews and have parties because of my blog presence. They think I must be quasi-important (hah!) and I think that my unwillingness to let them read my blog in its entirety is making them feel a little left out. I just don’t want them futzing through all the back posts about E, about Tim… and I don’t want them reading about when I’m mad or depressed and whatnot. My family worries a lot. But I write about a lot of innocent things too, so why not share those? Or even slightly-edited versions of the mostly-innocent stuff, like Operation PANTS?

So I’m thinking that the Tumblr could be a sort of edited version of Swinging from the Chandelier. The WP2Tumblr plugin gives me a box on my “Write Post” screen that I can check if I want the post sent to my Tumblr, or uncheck if I don’t. And I can add little update-y bits on there too, just to keep them posted on things that I otherwise wouldn’t write an entire post about.

Could this be a good idea that allows me the opportunity to let the family in a LITTLE bit while not giving them access to all of the details?

What are your tumbly thoughts?

—————–

Update: WP2Tumblr WORKED!