HighbrowJanuary 17, 2013 at 5:27 am

Holiday Horror Stories

All I wanted was an N64

Busted By Mythbuster

My sister loves the Discovery Channel show “Mythbusters” almost as much as she loves Christmas itself. This year, I found the perfect gift for her—I discovered that my sister’s favorite cast member, Tory (incidentally, one of my celebrity crushes), designs merchandise for the show, so I went on his website and placed an order. Weeks went by. I had received a simple receipt of purchase, but nothing else—not even shipping info. I was anxious. It was now a week before Christmas and several days before I would leave Penn. Using the email address from the contact information on the receipt, I pounded out a complaint, and sent it. My message was damn cranky, so imagine my surprise when I found in my inbox, just a few hours later, a note claiming that my package had just been shipped. I was shocked by the expediency–but then I realized something. The emails the website sent me (receipt, order confirmation, etc), were from a different address than the one to which I sent my complaint. That’s because I had unknowingly sent my complaint to Tory’s personal email address. Even though the package still didn’t arrive before Christmas, my sister claimed that my word-yelling at one of my celebrity crushes (think: “RONALD WEASLEY, HOW DARE YOU STEAL THE CAR?”) just so she could get her present was the greatest, most thoughtful gift she could receive. I’m pretty sure Tory completely disagrees.

Poop Deck

Cruises are supposed to be the luxury liners of the sea. And for the first six days of my winter vacation aboard Princess Cruises, it was just that: a tropical haven cruising through the Caribbean Sea. I spent most mornings on the top deck, my body bronzing from the hot sun, my Ray–Bans perched oh–so–casually on the tip of my nose. I thought myself to be the utter picture of a sun goddess. That is, until I got a horrible stomachache right in the middle of the midnight chocolate buffet. Could it be I’d eaten some bad clams at the ship’s five star restaurant? Perhaps too much sun in Saint Maarten? Slowly, the aches turned to agonizing cramps, and soon I found myself permanently glued to the toilet seat of my stateroom. While friends and family lounged outside, the sun goddess continued to empty her stomach out from both ends until the cruise finally docked in Fort Lauderdale. I found out later that I had contracted the Norovirus, along with over 200 other passengers. The good news: I quickly lost all the weight I gained from the all–you–can eat buffet. The bad news: I did it shitting my brains out.

Auld Lang Wine

I promise, I usually try to drink in moderation, count my shots, yada yada, all that good stuff. But when your father gives you two bottles of wine and a bottle of 190-proof Everclear for Christmas, your New Year’s is probably not going to turn out so well. The night started innocently enough, but after a few mixed drinks and a ten-minute walk through minus-10-degree weather, my body felt like it was on fire and I needed to stop our entire caravan to throw up in the bushes. I rallied, but only until we reached our destination. I spent the remainder of the night on a couch next to a guy named Todd who was not-so-discretely watching porn on his phone. I only got up long enough to ring in the New Year while vomiting in the bathroom, but not before walking in on two separate couples having sex. In the same room. Happy New Year.

Murphy’s Law

A week before my last final, I started finalizing my travel plans home to Long Island. Amtrak’s all booked? Boltbus it is. What’s a bit of cramped legroom for a trip that’s a fraction of the cost? Little did I know, I would soon find out the true meaning of “you get what you paid for.” What was supposed to be a 2–hour trip to New York City became a 5–hour trip from hell. By the time I stepped off the bus, I was pretty sure nothing else could go wrong and was looking forward to a precisely 42 minute train ride home. But no, true to the sitcom my life was slowly becoming, I soon discovered, as I approached the angry mob that was surrounding Penn station, that apparently, “all Long Island railroad lines were down.” Frustrated and on the verge of tears I called my mom, who agreed to pick me up. An hour and a half later, tears and venti caramel macchiato long gone, I saw my mom’s glorious Honda civic pull up to the corner. I was finally going home. “Surprise!” she shouted. I glanced at the other suitcase in the backseat suspiciously. “We’re taking a weekend trip to visit your relatives in Virginia! We thought you needed a vacation. Isn’t that great?”



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