Home for the Holidays

Ahhh, the holiday season is upon us once again. Time to visit the people who drive us insane: our families. I do not care who you are, if you have a pulse then you have a crazy family member or two. Perhaps you have an uncle who is a bigot, or a cousin who always has to one-up you. It’s part of life. All we can do is suck it up and do shots of tequila when no one is looking.

I’ll be the first to admit that I get a bit nervous when I bring home a new boyfriend for the first time. I have family members who simply love to tell embarrassing stories about me to anyone who will listen. I’m all for honesty in a relationship, but I don’t think my new beau needs to know that I once locked myself outside and had to go to my neighbor’s house wearing only a towel and huge slippers shaped like bear paws with my face painted up like circus clown. It was not my proudest moment, and I have no problem keeping that little nugget of info to myself.

Along with a love for nostalgia, my family also enjoys breaking into song at the oddest times. There is just no way to prepare someone for that kind of experience. My relatives are the Polish version of the Von Trapp family and they have a vast and diverse collection of songs memorized. Can you imagine your new love having to sit and watch your father sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time”? It’s an experience that takes years of therapy to get over.

The holidays can be quite the test for new relationships. Lots of careful decisions need to be made. Do you bring the person you’ve been seeing for three months home with you, or do you each go see your families solo? If you do ask your boyfriend or girlfriend to come over for thanksgiving dinner, are they going to freak out and think you are getting too serious too fast? If you don’t ask them, are they going to be hurt and sulk until New Year’s Day? What if her parents are still crazy about her last boyfriend and they spend a good part of dinner talking about how this guy volunteered with homeless children, was the youngest person ever to be promoted to a senior position at his job, and once helped save a dolphin that was trapped in a tuna net? If that’s not a good time then, well, I just don’t know what is.

A few years back I went with my then-boyfriend to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving. I was living in Boston at the time and I had to work the next day, so it was easier than trying to travel home and back in less than 24 hours. His parents lived just twenty minutes outside the city, and the idea of not having to spend a good portion of my day off sitting on the Massachusetts Turnpike was appealing. The man I was dating played the mandolin in a bluegrass band and we had met at a bar that was near my place of employment. Music Man and I had been seeing each other for about three months when the holidays rolled around. I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the thought of meeting his parents, but I wasn’t turned off by it either. We got along well and were dating each other exclusively. Meeting his family seemed like the logical next step for our relationship. It ended up being one of the worst decisions I have ever made.

Even though I am an outgoing person, I have always been extremely nervous about meeting any of my boyfriends’ parents for the first time. I worry that I’m going to say the wrong thing or wear an outfit that is too dressy or too casual for the situation. I know that the day is most likely going to go by without any serious social blunders on my part, but I still get a bit anxious.

Dinner was scheduled for three o’clock and my boyfriend and I arrived a bit early so that he could introduce me to everyone before we sat down to eat. Music Man’s family consisted of his mom and step-father, Ruth and Tom, his grandmother Alice, his brother and sister-in-law Steve and Claudia, and his unmarried aunt Trish. There was also an older man there who they called Cousin Bert, but I never met him because he was asleep in the den the entire day.

The first hour or so was pleasant. Everyone seemed friendly and I could tell they were trying to make me feel welcome. We all made small talk; discussing topics like sports, recent vacation destinations, and the local news. I was starting to realize that my anxiety about this family gathering was silly and unfounded. Then his aunt spoke up. With only a few sentences the entire day made a screeching U-turn and sped off to Crazy Town.

Music Man’s Aunt Trish was a professor at a local college. She taught women’s studies and had recently published a book that discussed various ways that the average woman could improve her sexual encounters. I told her that I was considering becoming a full-time writer and we talked about the pros and cons of the profession. Suddenly the conversation shifted and Aunt Trish began asking me questions about my sex life. Her first question was how sexually compatible I thought her nephew and I were. I don’t think my jaw has ever dropped so fast in my entire life. I stammered some generic answer and tried to switch to a more appropriate subject. Trish was having none of that though. She unmercifully continued her version of the Spanish Inquisition with gusto. I was asked about my favorite position in bed, if I ever considered having a threesome, and what kind of sex toys I had in my nightstand. The idea of crawling into the oven with the turkey was becoming more appealing by the second.

I was blown away by how casually Music Man’s family talked about this rather personal subject. Not wanting to be left out, my boyfriend’s mom cut in and shared her opinions. Ruth, a 56 year old mother of two, loudly stated that she loved her sex swing and kindly offered to send me the website so that her son and I could get our own. All I could think was, “Are you shitting me? Is this really happening right now?” I had never wanted to be home with my family as much as I did right then. I’d gladly take hours of singing Neil Diamond songs over listening to these people discuss their favorite Penthouse Forum letters. Fuck it, I’d stand up on the dinner table and perform an Irish step dance while belting out “Sweet Caroline” if it meant that I would never have to hear anyone my parents’ describe the various ways that handcuffs can be used in the bedroom.

Finally, Music Man’s step-dad came into the living room and announced that dinner was ready. I have never gone from one room to another as fast as I did at that moment. I wouldn’t have moved faster if I was being chased by a Somali pirate hopped up on crystal meth.

I slumped in my seat and silently prayed for death. Steve, Music Man’s brother, stood up to say grace. He started the blessing in a rather normal manner. After what I had just sat though, I didn’t think the day could get any weirder. I was wrong. After thanking the Lord for the great food and wonderful company, Steve asked everyone to bow their heads’ and pray for the souls of communists everywhere. He proclaimed that the only way to avoid the apocalypse would be for the world’s communists to let Jesus into their hearts and come back to the flock.

Apparently Steve’s wife, Claudia, became a born-again Christian shortly after the couple got married, and told Steve that if he did not convert as well that she would leave him. So Steve joined her church and devoted his life to bringing Jesus to the masses. My boyfriend had failed to mention that this thanksgiving dinner was also going to be a religious revival. I sat there stunned, praying feverishly for some sort of deity to come down and save my ass from this insanity. I guess Jesus wasn’t making house calls that day.

After we prayed for the “Pinkos” as Steve called them, we dug into dinner. My boyfriend had raved about his step-dad’s cooking abilities and I was looking forward to the break in conversation as everyone ate. The plates were passed around and I took a little bit of each dish except for the turkey. I am a vegetarian and I haven’t eaten meat in over a decade. I’ve never had a problem with other people eating meat, but I don’t particularly like when other people make rude comments about my dietary choices. Grandma Alice, who had been pretty quiet up until now, noticed that I did not have any turkey on my plate. My boyfriend quickly explained that I was a vegetarian and assured her that I was completely content eating everything else that was being served.

This explanation did not satisfy that woman. Grandma Alice, a 4’ 9” Irish immigrant, loudly exclaimed that only an idiot would refuse to eat meat. She went on to say that animals were created specifically for human use and told me I should be grateful to have been born a carnivore. My blood pressure was skyrocketing and it took every ounce of restraint I could muster not to jump over and beat this lady with a turkey drumstick. I kicked my boyfriend under the table and gave him a look that said, “I will rip your throat out if you do not do something about this right now.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a return look that told me I was on my own for this one.

Ruth, his mom, spoke up and asked me what I did for a living. I was a bartender before I became a writer, and at that point in time I was working at a popular Irish bar in Boston’s Faneuil Hall district. Ruth listened politely as I talked about my profession. I was hoping she felt how uncomfortable I was and that this was her attempt to save me from further scrutiny. Nope. Wrong again. Out of nowhere, Ruth launched into a long tirade about her ex-husband. She used a plethora of profanities to explain how Music Man’s father was a heavy drinker and quite the philanderer. She passionately described the “whores” that he went with behind her back, and proclaimed that the only thing he did could do well was drink Budweiser and belch out the first verse of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” I glanced at Tom and watched his face go from winter-pale to tomato red in a matter of seconds. He was clearly on the verge of tears, and I was on the verge of drinking directly out of the wine bottle in front of me at the table.

As we ate, I silently pondered the best way to exit Satan’s fun house the minute the last dish was off the table. As a thank you to Music Man’s parents for inviting me to their home, I had made a dessert for all to enjoy. I brought an apple crisp dish and I was proud of the way it had come out. Everyone took a portion and sat back to enjoy the after-dinner coffee and tasty sweets. All was going well until I noticed that Aunt Trish’s face was becoming blotchy at an alarming rate. She kept scratching her neck and arms until the entire table knew something was wrong. Music Man leaned over and told me that his aunt had some weird food allergies. A feeling of dread washed over me when he asked what types of spices I had used in the desert.

I listed the ingredients praying that there was no way someone could be allergic to a dish that was so simple. No such luck. Aunt Trish had a severe allergy to cinnamon. Once Music Man heard the word cinnamon, he jumped out of his chair and told his brother to get the car. I looked back to Trish and her face and hands had swollen to biblical proportions. My mind was spinning. If I had put crack cocaine and shards of glass into this stupid apple crisp it wouldn’t have had such dire results. COME ON! Why would a person who was allergic to cinnamon eat apple crisp. I swear she did it to fuck with me.

I sat paralyzed in my chair, thinking “I killed his fucking aunt” over and over to myself. She wasn’t having heart burn or hiccups from my desert; she was having a goddamn heart attack. I prayed that the entire day was a twisted version of Punked and that Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out of the pantry. I actually leaned down and started to bang my head on the table. I’m a pretty laid back chick, but this was too much. The family rushed around in a frenzy trying to get out the door and to the hospital. No one said a word to me; instead they glared at me with looks of disgust on their faces.

In a matter of minutes the entire clan was out the door with the dying aunt. Even my boyfriend had left the house. I grabbed the vodka that had been sitting on the sideboard and chugged directly from bottle. I needed to leave immediately, but I hadn’t driven there and all my friends had left Boston for the long weekend. There was absolutely no way I was going to sit in that house of horror until Music Man returned. I would climb mountains wearing nothing but stilettos, a hula skirt, and a bee keeper helmet if I had to; I was getting the hell out of there one way or another.

I pulled out my cell phone and called information for the number of the local cab company. Because it was a holiday there were very few drivers working, and the dispatcher informed me it would be at least 45 minutes before anyone could pick me up. I told him that I needed to leave and that I would be willing to ride in a rickshaw if I had to. I begged him to send someone over as fast as possible.

I collected my purse and coat and walked down to the corner of the street. It had been a terribly cold day and while I waited outside the temperature hovered at a balmy 14 degrees. After what seemed like an eternity, the cab finally appeared. I melted into the back street, gave the driver my address, and put my hood over my face. Thirty minutes later I was back home and out fifty-five dollars. This cab company charged double on holidays. Lovely. I was not surprised one bit. In fact, I have never been surprised by anything since that fateful Thanksgiving.

Needless to say, that was the last time I spoke to Music Man. He emailed me a few days later to tell me that his aunt did not die. He also said that we should probably go our separate ways. I couldn’t have agreed more. I would chew glass before I would spend time with anyone in that family ever again, including him.

A few weeks later I went home for Christmas. I had never been so happy to see my family wearing matching Frosty the Snowman sweaters and doing their acapella version of the Beach Boys’ “Kokimo.” My tale of the torturous day became THE topic of the house. No one believed that something like that could actually happen. My friends found the entire ordeal hilarious and even today it is brought up pretty consistently. I don’t remember fantasizing about being a cautionary tale as a child. I wanted to be a vet.

This year, as you make your way through the upcoming holidays, take the time to appreciate your family and your significant other’s family as well. You may not like that your Uncle Joe still gives you a noogie each and every time you see him, but believe me, things could always be worse. Dive in and enjoy the craziness of your loved ones and embrace the new families that you meet along the way. They may have a few odd habits or strange personality quirks, but that is what makes them special. They might be freaks, but at least they’re your freaks.

Just don’t forget to ask about food allergies.