More Holiday Musings

December 25, 2008

There are certain things that I will never understand. For instance, why my mother fully washes the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Why leaving the house in my family always induces acute panic as we grab our belongings and run out the door before the alarm goes off. Why my aunt gives my cousin Suzy a terry cloth “I love Grandma” baby bib when Suzy does not have a child, nor is she pregnant. Why the only thing that can peak my 87-year-old grandmother’s interest is a game of one-arm bandit on my uncle’s blackberry. And the topper, why a nearly naked picture of my adult brother was not only found but passed around the table last night, to everyone’s hysterical amusement and my personal trauma.

Around the kitchen table.

Christmas Eve. It was actually pretty tame this year. I walked into my aunt and uncle’s abode of marble and chandeliers and a shiny black baby grand, the porcelain angels and an orchestra of caroling animals, the 7-fish spread on stainless steel countertops, to a much softer buzz of conversation, uncomfortably quiet at first. But throw in some dirty jokes and borderline porno to just plain freakish images stored on my uncles’ blackberries and things start to liven up. In our defense, we did have the more traditional Santa visit (my brother played the part this year, with Danielle his elf assistant) enjoyed by the younger company, the exchange of gifts in my family’s first attempt at a grab bag, and my cousin Andrew’s lovely piano playing (unfortunately we did not sing carols this year, very much to my dismay). It turned out to be a night of laughs and comfort, twisted and inappropriate as some of the triggers may be.

My sister's lovely family.

Fellow weirdos Al and Danielle.

Aunt Nina, who made it all possible.

A few too many.

My number one guy.

Per usual, I was up with my parents and Al and Danielle until about 2:30 back at our house, opening our individual gifts and talking, my mom happy with her new “woke” (also known as a WOK), me snuggling under a new sheep blanket with my stuffed sheep, courtesy of Al who understands my bizarre fascination with wooly quadrupeds. This morning I revved myself up on coffee, talked incessantly to my mother about every incident and thought that has befell me over the past month as if we haven’t talked in years, watched her new Roomba zig zag along the floors of the house. Laughed at my father mumbling a few obscenities at the Roomba. Some more talking. Danielle with ribbons tied around her head, Al with no shirt and a snow hat, we’re all, even my parents, like kids, playing around, still in our pajamas. That part of the holidays has never seemed to change--the playfulness of Christmas morning. We’ll lounge around most of the day then head to my other aunt’s--same crowd new locale--for more food.

Midday appletinis.

Danielle and I, happy and relaxed.



A refreshing winter walk with mom at Verona park.

I’ve been pestering everyone to drop our plans and head into the city for a clichéd Rockerfeller Center Christmas. See the tree. Get hot dogs and hot chocolate. Walk in the slush around the Christmas windows, just like my parents used to take Al and I when we were young. Inhale the very same charcoal smell that got me hooked nearly 20 yeas ago, the burning pretzels mixing in with the crisp night air. Despite the crowds, and hellishness of midtown, by tonight I know I’ll be feeling like a fish out of water again, and will be craving the chaos, even that chaos, the activity and diversions, just so I can breath.