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Thanksgiving provides more proof as to why I'll never understand women. My wife claims to love the holiday - and she puts a lot of effort into preparing for the big day. My wife (34DD is another psuedonym my wife will carry - and she does carry a couple of big ones - in order to avoid writing 'my wife' over and over) looks forward to baking the turkey, making pies, creating several variations of stuffings, gelled cranberry sauce (a point of contention - I strongly prefer the whole berry variety), mashed and scalloped potatoes, buttered peas, rolls, and glazed hams. Also, she creates several beautiful flower arrangements placed throughout the house, and sets up no less than three 'serving stations' where her finished cooking will be staged for buffet style eating.
However, she always forgets how stressful and the amount of drama that actually happens on Thanksgiving Day. Of course, I bear the brunt of 34DD's frustration, anger, stress; I'm the one who's never helping when I'm needed, always doing something less important (you know, manly things like folding laundry, vacuuming the bedroom, etc.) when I should be in the kitchen doing something else.
Our Thanksgiving Day is really like a two-part very special episode of your favorite Fox sitcom. After she runs ragged throughout the morning, my parents (my dad and stepmom) who we told to come at 2pm, naturally show up at 1pm. I'm downstairs, watching a movie with my best friend (who is also in the middle of a deep depression, and begins crying at any time for no apparent reason at all....more on that later. Maybe.), and through the deep pounding bass of the seven channel surround sound home theatre system, I can just make out my name being called from upstairs. The fact that I can hear it at all warrants an immediate reaction, but that 34DD is using my christian name vs. 'honey' or 'baby' tells me that I'm in the doghouse. Taking the stairs two at a time, with only the new arrival of my friend's sobs in my wake, I find my parents already in the house, noting any changes since their last visit, and hugging the kids (who really don't see them often, resulting in awkward and less than heartfelt reunions).
About my parents. My dad is deeply religious, and not in a cool, "go-to-mass-every-sunday-and-get-Irish-drunk-every-saturday" way. I was raised in a very evangelically religious environment - I'm talking hands in the air, and pressure to babble in made up languages so others would think the Holy Spirit was speaking through me in tongues. My dad connected with something in this branch of Christianity. So did my mom. Kneeling and standing, singing hymn #206, repeating back what the priest says - this wasn't their bag of tea. I think they felt that by going all-in as they did, they felt like they were connecting with the real Jesus. However, the deeper down the evangelical rabbit hole they went, the more stark was the contrast with any hypocricy that bubbled to the surface.
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| This is how I grew up (well except for the being Indian part) |
None of this helped my mom. She died of cancer when I was 16 years old. My dad remarried a couple of years later (and has been married to my stepmom for 23 years now) to a nice lady, but a Roman Catholic one. They found a separate peace, with her going to mass, and he doing whatever it is he does these days. I can remember the first time he saw a photo of me from one of my fraternity dances. I was so wasted, and it was so obvious. The disappointment in his face, and the guilt that arose in me - no matter how irrational the feeling was - led me to never live at home again. I lived at the fraternity and then with roommates after college.
Now, contrast my parents and their very conservative beliefs with 34DD's family.
My in-laws got divorced right around the time 34DD and I got married. They were a co-dependent mess together. But notwithstanding their personal relationship issues, my wife's family were free spirits. My father-in-law is an atheist, thinks religion is nuts and has quoted Marx several times referencing it as the 'opiate of the masses.' When my wife was a kid, her parents used to grow pot in the basement, were heavy partiers, and whose beliefs and behaviors shaped 34DD for a lifetime. My wife cusses and swears all the time, but she does it almost as a dialect unique to our household. Our kids hear it all the time, which used to really bother me and drive me nuts, due to my own upbringing. However, her cursing doesn't even bug me anymore. Our kids don't flinch at hearing the 'fucks' and 'shits' and 'assholes' and 'jesus christs' around the house. Someone like my dad would cringe if he knew this were our daily speaking language. The kids are so used to hearing it, but also understand that it isn't generally accepted in their daily, public lives.
I hope you understand why part one of Thanksgiving - my parents arrival - is so stressful to 34DD. After a couple of hours entertaining them, they announce their departure, heading off to another boring relative's dinner. Once they leave, the rest of the days' guests start arriving. Every single one of them - with the exception of my brother (and my depressed friend) - is from 34DD's side of the family. Immediately, wine and champagne corks are popping, glasses of wine are being refilled time and time again, and conversation is getting louder and louder.
Guests include 34DD's mom and dad, arriving separately and finally getting along after 10 years of divorce. Her dad's girlfriend of seven years, who hails from New Jersey - with the accent to prove it - comes along (she's like a grandma to the kids). My wife's enormous and quiet brother and his ten year younger wife show up with their cute son, the smell of cigarette smoke all over them, and whose provenance is clearly country cousin. Rounding out the guests is the daughter of 34DD's dad's Jersey girlfriend, and a single mom and her son who are joined at the hip with my wife's brother's family. Got that?
After my folks left, I figured my job of exclusive entertainment was done, so I went back downstairs to my movie, while upstairs bottle after bottle of wine was consumed. At one point, I heard stomping and yelling. I knew something was going on - and knowing our Thanksgivings and the central role that wine plays - it could have been anything. Turns out the Jersey girlfriend and her daughter were completely drunk (from my wife's Champagne Kirs charged with high octane homemade liqueur), and yelling at each other over the man who is the daughter's dad, and the father-in-law's girlfriend's ex-husband (boy, this would be much easier if I hadn't committed to writing anonymously). The daughter went too far by criticizing my father-in-law for not treating her mom well. 34DD, already well into her umpteenth glass of wine, overreacted at the slight on family honor, confronted the daughter, who decided - rather yelled very loudly - that she was leaving. I offered to give her a ride home, as that I wasn't drinking (I'm sure you're surprised that all of this drama didn't drive me to drink). Her response?
"I'm not too fucking drunk to drive home!" Door slam.
Awkward. The turkey wasn't even out of the oven and the drama was in full force.
By the end of the night, I had someone vomiting out on our deck, someone sneaking away to avoid me trying to stay and sober up, and had to give my father-in-law and his girlfriend a 45 minute round trip ride home because she had lost her keys (which I found this morning on the driveway, finally melted of all its ice and snow).
I look at Facebook, and see all the nice photos and descriptions of traditional, seemingly perfect Thanksgiving gatherings. Though our gatherings are more Goya than Rockwell, the holiday spirit is just as real in our house, and even the annual drama represents a certain sense of family and home. I couldn't imagine sitting down to a formal Thanksgiving dinner, with conversation limited to non-offensive topics pandering to the lowest common denominator of the guests (most likely someone's stuffy aunt). Though I regret hosting the holiday's activities every year when the drama is at its worst, looking back at the memories, funny stories and the anecdotes that warrant retelling year after year, I think I got it pretty good.
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| My Vision of Thanksgiving Boredom |
As the saying goes, the family that disfunctions together, stays together. My family and I don't lack in that department.
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