Gather round, dear readers, for a heartwarming Christmas
tale. It is a story that has gone down in Bjorklund family history – one that
we retell with joy each Christmas. This, my friends, is the story of the Trojan
Christmas.
The story of the Trojan Christmas begins not at Christmas,
but in the summer of 2005. If you recall, I had just graduated high school and
was hard at work making a movie with my friend Bob. Well, attempting to make a
horror movie. We had a location (an old abandoned house), a script (though it
was terrible), and actors (our rag-tag band of friends). What we didn’t have
was time. Or any idea what we were doing.
However, we did have props. I spent all of my church
camp/Dairy Mart wages that summer on supplies for the movie, and we were at
WalMart or Goodwill at least every other day with a whole laundry list of
things we needed. From tiny tea lights to gigantic black sheets to tacky wall
hangings, we were well-stocked with props.
One of those props was a box of Trojan Her Pleasure condoms.
Why? Because our movie had a sex scene. Well, as close to a sex scene as a
bunch of modest goody two-shoes like us were willing to get. In the scene,
Bob’s character and Bob’s character’s girlfriend sneak off somewhere to take
advantage of the privacy in the creepy abandoned house. In our master
camerawork plan, we were planning on showing an open box of Trojans to
not-so-subtly hint as to what went on in there.
Buying the Trojans was, as you can imagine, a bit hilarious.
I was 18 and Bob was 17, and we had a whisper-battle in line at WalMart: “You
buy them!” “No, YOU buy them!” “I’m not buying them!” (Alas, these were the
days before self check-outs.) I don’t remember who ended up buying them, but I
do remember giggling uncontrollably after we got to the parking lot.
Sadly, our masterpiece never came to fruition. Summer ended,
and many of our actors (myself included) went off to college. With that, the
momentum was gone. Bob and I packed up all our movie stuff in a paper box and
placed it in my parents’ basement. Even though we both knew we’d never finish
our movie, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to throw away all our props and our
months of hard work.
Fast forward to fall 2010. My brother Mitch was 17 and was
digging around in the basement for God knows what. He came across and old paper
box with “movie supplies” written on it in permanent marker. When he opened up
the box, under the pages of costume designs and script rewrites, Mitch
unearthed an open box of Trojan Her Pleasure condoms.
The lower level of our house is Dad’s domain. Naturally,
Mitch approached Dad and said, “Dad, do we need to have a talk?” Dad laughed
and said that, yes, actually, those were his! He had purchased condoms to
include in a card for a friend’s 40th birthday.
Fast forward again to Christmas Eve 2010. I came downstairs
to fill my mom’s stocking only to find Dad with Mitch’s stocking in hand. He
said, “Just watch Mitch’s face tomorrow. Just watch.” I had no idea what was
transpiring, and I did indeed keep a close eye on Mitch as he emptied out the
contents of his Christmas stocking. Smushed at the bottom, way in the toe, was
the crumpled box of Trojans. Between peals of laughter, Dad told the story of
how Mitch found them in the basement and confronted him. Realizing that they’d
come from the movie prop box, I cried, “Dad, those weren’t yours – they’re
mine! Wait, they’re BOB’S!!!”
Cue endless hyena laughter.
The Trojan Christmas is so much a favorite story of ours
that a certain phrase has made its way into our family vocabulary. When we want
Mitch or Dad to give us their very best smiles for a picture, all we have to do
is say “Trojan smile!” Works every time.
That, dear friends, is the story of the Trojan Christmas. You
may be wondering if I’ve ever had a normal Christmas. Between the Christmas
Hangovers and the “I’m not saying you ARE fat – you just LOOK fat” and letters
from Santa in my mom’s handwriting and Trojans, the answer is most definitely
no. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The original Trojan smile. |
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