When I was a kid I used to think the notion of "home for the holidays" was so romantic. That travelling home for the holidays would be like in the movies--Mom and Dad would cook for you and have the house decorated and it would feel special. And you'd go have a beer at the local bar and run into an old high school flame or foe and make adult amends. But my family was always close enough that the travel usually only took up an hour or so of the morning, and the indecision of whether to light the menorah or trim the tree made things unnecessarily complicated. I was jealous of movie holidays. Later, as an adult living states away from my family, holiday travel became hectic and obligatory-like traveling for work or racing to the hospital to watch Aunt Bev die. But with presents. I should know better. But after some unexpected turns this year I was hopeful for some holiday magic. Some feeling of excitement or nostalgia that would propel me into the new year with a new outlook. So my wife and I set out into the mountains, packed into a van with two cold, wet dogs--one embarrassingly overweight, the other slowly dying--to be 'home for the holidays' with her family. My in-laws. (...) (...)
They live in the house my wife's stepfather grew up in. It is full of charm and creaks and character. But as you might imagine it was built back when people took up much less space. The bathroom was not designed for lazy bathing. The kitchen not made to accommodate dust-gathering monster machinery. Maneuvering becomes a game of Jenga. Because my wife didn't grow up in this house I do not get the novelty of sleeping in her old bedroom covered in Morrissey posters. But we do get to sleep in the attic where the grandkids play-surrounded by tea sets and stuffed animals and remote control cars. This is where we will wake up at 4 a.m. to clanking dishes and a blaring television, two grown adults screaming at each other about Velveeta because one of them is legitimately deaf. Their family dogs-originally trained for hunting-will bark when air moves and let themselves in and out of the house as they please, the door banging behind them every time. (My favorite is Missy. She only has three legs and looks like Jar Jar Binks and Marilyn Monroe had a baby. My kinda girl.) And I'll climb down the steep staircase that hasn't had a working light in at least five years in anticipation of creamed tomatoes and gigantic buttermilk biscuits. And for 20 minutes it'll all be worth it...
Only that breakfast wasn't meant to be this year. After a visit to the doctor, my father-in-law has given up carbs. We would also have no hot water as the hot water tank went out after 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve. So there I stood on Christmas morning, taking a whore bath from a boiling pot, trying to make myself presentable for extended family. You may be wondering at this point if this small town family accepts me as an in-law. Yes, they do. I'm showered with gifts. My father-in-law thinks I'm the prettiest one. The youngest grandchild understands that he has two aunts who live together. HOWEVER. Not one of them knows I'm a Jew. Dyke? OK. Kyke? No.
And so I stay closeted--eating the microwaved corn on the cob that is offered to me for Christmas dinner.
(Sidenote: To be fair I am not knocking my mother-in-law's cooking here. Everyone knows that my own mother cooks meat no less than three times before it actually makes it to the table--microwaved for defrosting--boiled to kill anything that may have landed on or near it--and finally oven for the actual "cooking" part.)
And then on Christmas night two heartbreaks--the news of George Michael's passing, and having to explain to the older and more tipsy members of the family the difference between George Michael and Boy George, and learning that I would not be getting the homemade yeast rolls I love so much. What would we find in their place? That loose hussy Sister Schubert had somehow made her way to another of my holiday functions!!!!
All was finally calm when we settled in for movie night. It was there I discovered that like 112% of the female population, I would probably do anything The Rock asked me to. Though he probably wouldn't ask me for much without access to hot water.
I am most thankful this year that my holiday travels are over. That I am back to my routine. Taking hot showers in a house where the pets don't know how to open doors. Where there are no ancient black death stairs to die on. Where I can be half Jewish all the time. Where I can watch the news in peace (sort of). Though I notice Lester Holt is on holiday vacation. I wonder if even he is somewhere stomping around in his old bedroom, exasperated by his mother, trying to explain to his family what he does for a living...
No comments :
Post a Comment