Every Christmas is spent in Plymouth on Deer Court with my mom's side of the family at Grandma and Grandpa's. Being the most punctual and the closest in driving distance, the Leslies are usually the first to arrive, followed by my family. Walking in the door, it would be odd if Grandma didn't kiss your neck and pinch your "took us" while squealing, "Merry Christmas, my sweet angle!" Grandpa, standing behind her would ask, "Where's my hug?" That, right there, is a loaded question. Every cousin in the family knows about Grandpa's hugs: they're dangerous. Cover your flanks. Don't ever go in for a hug, arms wide and extended, unless you're willing to get a thumb in the ribs which is always followed by an embarrassing yelp that escapes from your lips no matter how much you're anticipating the jab (I'm still not certain whether it tickles or hurts). We've all learned our lesson, and now hugs look like that of a cautious Tyrannosaurus Rex: arms pinned so closely to your sides you have about a two foot reach, give or take a few inches depending on your height. After the greetings, we clear out the furniture in the living room, set up tables and chairs, lay down the place settings, and begin prepping the meal, all the while the rest of the family trickles in and says their hellos. Uncles Pat and Aunt Laura are usually the last to show up because they live so far away, so by the time they get there, all the Secret Santa presents are under the tree, and the rest of the family is either pouring drinks in the laundry room, or huddled into the small family room around a 30 inch TV to watch A Christmas Story. No one can resist an Uncle Pat kiss, and by no one I mean everyone. With his wet lips that always seem to meet yours no matter which way you turn your head, a Jeri-curl perm, sunglasses hanging around his neck, and tube socks that go up to his knees, Uncle Pat is always someone you try to steer clear of when he is making his kissing rounds, especially when he's in a Christmas Beverly-giving mood (better known to the non-Sharpes as a wedgie). After reciting almost every line from the movie that we watch every 25th of December on a reel, the cousins will exchange ridiculous stories and then com sup with even more ridiculous ideas.
Every year there seems to be a new craze. A few personal favorites include the cinnamon challenge, planking, or saying "YOLO" as much as possible. Well, one year, the gallon challenge was what everyone was talking about. If you're not familiar, it's when a single person drinks a gallon of milk in one hour. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. Consuming a gallon of anything, let alone a drink that is packed with fat and protein, is nearly impossible due to the simple fact that the human stomach was made to hold only a half-gallon. Well, this particular Christmas, it was suggested, most likely by Emily, the master-schemer, that someone attempt the gallon challenge. Right away Brian's name was volunteered; mostly because he was the youngest before I came around, but almost because he was open to many, irrational suggestions (including swallowing a Jell-O egg whole one Easter). After only a few minutes of peer pressure, Brian gave in, but there was a stipulation. Instead of drinking milk, because it was Christmas, he would have to drink Egg Nog, a drink so vile just the look of it could make your cringe. Getting out a nice, tall glass, Dave cracked open the gallon which emitted a smell that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He set the glass down in from of an unsure Brian and began pouring the thick liquid into the glass. After a deep breath, Brian quickly chugged the Nog, sputtering and coughing when he finished. This went on for three more glasses...well, let's just say that wasn't one of Brian's best Christmases.
With Brian in the bathroom projectile vomiting, the rest of the family gathered round to sing Christmas carols at the top of their lungs until they couldn't hear the spewing anymore. All in all, it was a Christmas we would never forget...especially Brian.
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