Every family has their traditions. Some families even have the same traditions as other families even if they don’t know it. Some families blatantly steal traditions from other families to lend themselves an air of class and sophistication. And other families dig deep into the psyche of a 10 year old boy and come up with traditions that never even give a friendly nod to either class or sophistication. You decide what kind of tradition this is.
When Clan DeDay gathers, rarely are there enough “good seats” to go around. Usually there’s at least two kitchen chairs dragged out for a couple unlucky sitters. But on the upside, if you get stuck in a “bad seat” you’re not stuck with the bad seat. You can always “trade up”. You just have to be patient. Eventually someone in a “good seat” will have to get up. There’s your chance! The seat is open! Take it!
Of course this means whoever had the good seat (and foolishly left it unguarded) is going to gripe. You have to, at this point, invoke the Age Old… invocation: “Move your meat, lose your seat!” And then the good seat is yours!
Until you get up.
You know what? My dog even tries to pull this. I’ll be sitting reading or something and then eventually I’ll have to get up. If it’s just to get, say, a drink of water, then I’ll be right back. And there’s Lucy, sitting in my place! Stupid dog. She’s just a dog, (which is why I call her “stupid dog” and not “stupid aardvark”) and can’t say “move your meat, lose your seat”, so she has to get down when I come back. Although sometimes I’ll let her share my seat. Because I’m nice that way.
-Rue.
If somebody said that to me out of the blue I think I’d be forced to demand an explanation. “Meat” typically has a different connotation to it, doesn’t it?
One of my favorite family traditions is “kick my sister in the shins really hard when she talks to much at the dinner table.”
She lives in Boston now, so I don’t get to indulge in that one very often.
Whenever our clan gets together I hide all of the good seats so there are only bad (well, not really bad, more like less good) seats.
So there are rarely arguments about who gets the good seat .
Whether it be Granny who’s tottering around just looking for a nice comfortable place to rest those tired limbs or the three year old who will quite happily place herself upon the bed of nails, you get a bad (not quite so good) seat.
It helps to keep people movin along. Who wants a party with people sitting down all day in the good seats and falling asleep with their gums gaping open and the teeth half falling out of the mouths with drool puddling under their chin.
Get off your bums you lazy slobs and go talk to that old woman over there, you know, your great aunt, what do you mean MY great aunt, isn’t she YOUR great aunt …?
That’s why I hide all of the good seats and everyone gets a bad seat. 'Cos I’m a miserable old bastard.
We rarely have enough seats when the whole family gets together. So there’s the bonus of “trading up” from standing or sitting on the floor to any seat (good or bad).
I feel the need to start singing “Tradition! Tradition!” I’m trying to think up some swampbear clan traditions. Hmm… there’s the chicken pie song and dance routine. Two of my nieces and I do it when my mother makes chicken pie for a family dinner. It consists of us doing this chorus line dance, you know, arms around the shoulders and doing a little kick step while singing “chicken pie! chicken pie! chicken pie, pie, pie!” Then there’s the stand around at family reunions and saying “no way in hell am I kin to so and so.” My sister and I like to sit on her deck and drink lots of beer, whenever I go up to visit. If it’s cold or rainy outside, we do the same thing, except in her living room. Everybody has his or her own personal seat when we gather at the parents for dinner. We all always sit in the same place. Newbies to such gatherings have this explained by their “sponsor” beforehand so they don’t commit a faux pas in the seating arrangements. Should such an error occur, the newbie will be informed to do some damn fast “meat” moving. I get a seat at the end of the table cause I’m a lefty and I don’t slow down for nothin’ when it’s dinner time. Then there’s this thing that’s become a tradition, at least for me, since my younger brother died. He loved Rolling Rock[sup]TM[/sup] beer, so I buy a six pack from time to time, go out to his grave, place one there, then drink one while I’m there. Then I go to my sister’s and we drink the others. She’s even started to do the same thing from time to time. The beer on the grave gets moved off by my sister after a couple of days. She says it’s always there when she goes to get it. Guess the town drunk doesn’t hang out in the cemetary very much.
Ex if ya want, next time I’m up there, I’ll kick my sister in the shins really hard in honor of your tradition. I think I’d survive the awfulness she would do to me afterwards.
Oh and one more kinda tradition. I have taken my nieces and nephew out on their 21st birthday, or shortly thereafter, for a drink. Got one more to go, but she’s only twelve, so I got nine years before I do it again. I haven’t done it since 1997 when the niece that next to youngest turned 21.
When I was about twelve, we had a family gathering and there weren’t enough seats at the main table so my parents used their emergency powers to declare a State of Kiddie Table, and said table was dragged out. My stepbrother and I copped the kidde table (covered in bunnies and shit), and my six year-old sister sat with the adults and spent the night (I imagined) sharing Oscar Wilde-type witticisms, fine cheeses, and cigars. My bro and I were mortified.
We had a kiddie table when I was a kid too. There were 6 of us cousins who had to sit there and I was 4 years older than the next kid in the hierarchy (and the only girl) … not so bad when I was 10 but by the time I was a teenager it really sucked.
We don’t have a kiddie table anymore because there’s only one kid and she’s 2 so it isn’t like she really sits at the table and eats with us… she kind of runs amock and grazes occasionally or steals stuff to feed the dog.
We had brunch at the Mariemont Inn yesterday. Ten grown ups and seven kids. So we had a kiddie table. They really liked it and ordered their own food. Which is why we normally sit with them.
I should have had the skillet and not the omelette, by the way. That’s good advice for the Mariemont Inn.
My parent’s dogs always get Christmas stockings, and they get to open them first. It’s traditional and unfair. Every Christmas we play the “Dad, get out of bed, it’s ten and we want to open our presents!” game. I guess that game is finished, now, since I’ve moved out. Unless, of course, Mom keeps it going.
The newly formed Lissar household hasn’t had time to create many traditions yet. We’re working on it.
I infinitely prefer the kiddie table. You’re allowed to play with your food and call each other names and kick each other under the table, and you don’t have to sit through Uncle Barry’s 50,000th rendition of “What’s Wrong With The British Government.”
There’s one disadvantage, though.
If you’re sitting at the kiddie table at any gift-opening event - Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Unbirthday, Anne-actually-made-it-on-time-day - the “coffee” course takes ten hours. It’s true.
Because no one’s allowed to open presents until after the adults have had their coffee.
I’m with Hama, the kids table rocks. I used to go to it by design, but for some reason Welbywife thinks I should sit at the adult table now, so I usually have to. I still manage to sneak away early though, so that I can bean one of the kids in the head with a dinner roll or something.
We don’t usually have a Kiddie Table anymore. It’s more a Kiddie Annex. Mom has a folding table that’s nearly-but-not-quite the same height and width as the regular table, but it’s not as long. So there’s a “speed bump for food” between the two tables and if we’re really packed in (even with all the “leaves” in the Big Table) at least one chair will be perfectly aligned with the folding legs, so when that lucky person gets in our out of their chair, everyone has to hold their drinks.
We don’t let an actual kid sit at the “leg seat”. And for some reason I’m not allowed to sit there either. Which is just as well.
For Ex, maybe we should change our chant to “Propell your corporeal mass from your chosen space and you may not return to said space when you get back if another has chosen to sit there in your absense”. But we probably won’t.
Just so you know, both Swampy and Skippy are left-handed. They would have to fight to the death for the good left-handed eating seat. If it were a round table, they’d both starve.
Did you know, there’s a higher percentage of geniuses and crazy people among the left-handed? Yeah, it’s true. Maybe we should make Swampy say something smart and test him out.
-Rue. (right, no matter how you look at it)
We always had a kids table when I was a kid, but there was a whole bunch of us close in age so it never really consigned anyone to humiliationn and purgatory. (OTOH, I was reading on the www.etiquettehell.com site of a 29-year-old woman whose new MIL made her sit at the kids table because she was under 30 – oy!)
But our favorite family traditions don’t even require us to be in the same country, let alone the same room – Spreading Bad News, closely followed by Secondhand Nagging. My mother even has her patented Disaster Voice[supTM[/sup] that is so distinctive that the moment I pick up the phone I know I’m going to hear about someone’s latest death or disease. (Heard it yesterday, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately, it IS bad news – my sister may have Parkinson’s, which is seriously not good. So think good thoughts for her, everyone, we’re praying it’s just some medication she’s taking!)
But back to a cheerful MMP. Secondhand Nagging is a family specialty. Nobody ever nags someone DIRECTLY, you see. My grandmother calls my mother to nag her about me not calling my grandmother. My mother calls me to nag me about my kids not emailing her. Then the Designated Nagger has to pass on the nag on behalf of the Original Nagger. The Intended Naggee is generally less than thrilled with the technique, I hasten to add. But that doesn’t stop those up the Nagging Chain from using it.
Dratted hosed coding. Disaster Voice[sup]TM[/sup]. Disaster Voice[sup]TM[/sup]. Disaster Voice[sup]TM[/sup]. There, I repeated it three times so maybe I’ll know how to do it right now.
Rue, my brothers and I played the “you moved, you lose” game. It was for the best and closest seat to the TV. Imagine watching a long movie, afraid to get up to pee or get a drink or anything. It was most nerve-wracking to have the best seat.
Mama Tiger prayers and lots of good thoughts heading to your sister. Keep us informed, ok? And don’t you just love etiquettehell? It’s such a hoot and makes me go :eek: a lot too.
Something smart, eh? Sure you wouldn’t prefer crazy instead? Oh wait, I do enough crazy in here already.
Propel, Propel your marine apparatus
Daintily downward the briny solution.
Jocularly, jocularly, jocularly, jocularly,
Existence is but an illusion.
I almost guessed the thread right by the title. Except I thought that the family member would actually have to move their meat. As in, take their plate of food including meat away from the table. That makes way more sense. Because if you nick someone else’s seat in the middle of dinner then there’s all the palaver of moving cutlery and plates and drinks and so on. I’d rather sit on the bad chair.
But really, I never get a bad chair. Unless it’s my house, which is specially designed for small people. Because I need to sit on a cushion on top of the chair at most people’s dining tables. Otherwise I have to eat all cramped up with my elbows round by my ears. That’s no fun at all.
One of our family traditions? Talking about other people at the table without them realising it. Me and my mum, making jokes in sign language about everyone else. Ha ha ha.
I think I should clarify. The trading up for good seats is when we’re just hanging out, “visiting”. Once the eating commences, no one moves much til all the plates are clean. I guess that’s a tradition too. No matter how much snacking we do before the meal, during the meal, it’s all business bay-bee! (I have mentioned I don’t come from a svelt people, but that was before and you might not remember.) Like Puddin’ said “there’s all the palaver of moving cutlery and plates and drinks and so on”. No one wants that.
Sorry NewYank’, your way is wrong. But thanks for playing.
-Rue. (official)
Then there’s this thing that’s become a tradition, at least for me, since my younger brother died. He loved Rolling Rock[sup]TM[/sup] beer, so I buy a six pack from time to time, go out to his grave, place one there, then drink one while I’m there. Then I go to my sister’s and we drink the others. She’s even started to do the same thing from time to time. The beer on the grave gets moved off by my sister after a couple of days. She says it’s always there when she goes to get it. Guess the town drunk doesn’t hang out in the cemetary very much.