|  Holiday
Jeer!
an emily blunt
rant
Say it with me…family...
you can't live with them and you can't kill them while they sleep or you're really
just throwing your own life away…
Everyone
dreads the holidays - nothing new there. I personally need three martinis and
a percocet to sally forth to the uppity Bostonian lair my family dwells within.
My mother, a dainty gal, tended to marry rather than date; My father was a great
man, though, sadly straight out of an 'Iceman Cometh'-like flophouse of human
dysfunctions. But I digress… The
result of my mother's bountiful blissful unions lead to three alpha children with
no need for conforming to the middle-child first-child syndromes society tries
to tag us with. This leads to fierce competition, and our holiday table is less
than taboo. Being
the Libra child and therefore the most pacifist of the blood crazed crew I really
truly - with exponents - dread the holidays. Last
Christmas' wretched brouhaha was the worst. I had purchased a bottle of fancy,
label conscious, vodka for my SUV driving, republican snorting uncle Floyd. As
is a tradition in our little abode, he sat at the head of the table, removed the
gift from its fancy designer box and held it up for all to admire the booty. Soon
the Ohhs and Ahhs purred from the group, all remarking upon its
form and obvious expense. As
he performed the ritual of judgment, the window behind him began to betray me.
The light shining through the tasty water revealed the bottle was almost half
empty! I
started to sweat, as I instinctually shot an eye towards my sister…praying
she'd still be enamored by the heavy cream green bean sauce from Balducci's. Nope.
It was too late.
I watched her face acknowledge the faux pas, contort with mischievous glee, then
erupt in a facial frenzy. When her mind and mouth met she'd unleash an evil tidal
wave of hurtful beats with pointy crests of cruel adjectives. I'd seen in this
scene before... Morphing
into what looked like a rabid Tim Burton-esque hyena hybrid that had found a lamb
caught in a hunter's trap, she leapt forth and grabbed the bottle before I could
even gulp a "Mommy!" Bracing for the inevitable I assumed the fetal
position. Her
unending barrage began..."What's this?!" as all clamoring at the table
ceased…"Why Emily you seemed to have given Floyd a USED bottle of Vodka!
How tacky is that?" Suddenly
the familar faces around the Thomas Allen Seasonal Collection™ table for
twelve burst in maniacal laughter as they shaped into an army of those creepy
flying monkeys from 'The Wizard of Oz'. As they eased back from me a bit, the
smaller of the herd broke free and started swinging from the signature Tiffany
chandelier. Shrill sounds and carnival organs filled the mahogany framed room
and I could have sworn I smelled sulfur. Even the turkey jumped up and pointed
its stubby drumstick at me in an accusing manner, now ashamed it was part of our
feast. Seeking
refuge from my carnivorous sibling, and her monologue that included analogies
between my life's many failures and the diluted gift, I shrieked, "It was
him!" Pointing to my boyfriend de Jour. A handsome, but ultimately sacrificable,
actor I'd been dating. It
could have been true. After
all the sleazstack was always broke and continually helped himself to my increasingly
diminishing hodge-podge of stuff. To
my shock, he didn't deny it saying, "How was I to know it was a gift? I sampled
the bottle in September - who buys Christmas gifts four months before?!"
Then, sensing no other escape route, the rat-bastard convulsed into tears, and
threw himself at my sister's feet for mercy. Drat.
I was completely alone. Defeated. I resolved to give the appearance of surrender
and float away to a happy place in my mind where a continuous musical selection
of fluffy MGM show tunes could cushion me as her multi-syllabled heat seeking
words bounced off my wounded subconscious. The
rest of the day is a blur. Though…I was thankful a flashback of the day's
bullying -- that involved me lunging across the table and grabbing a handful of
fleshy meat from my sister's cheek -- was just fantasy… They've
just rang with an invite for this year's sacrifice, err, Happy Holiday gathering.
Hmm, is it wrong to have quickly frabricated a new man in my life - just ad lies
and adjectives and viola Insta-Man is born. This man, a call Ben, was sweet enough
to ask me to join him and his family in Minnesota for the holidays. Where in minnesota?
Um, Fargo....they never watch films - perhaps they'd miss the obvious had-to-think-of-a-city-fast
faux pas.
Though now, thanks to my babbling enthusiams about the nonexistent
mate, they suspect I may be sending them an invite to a wedding. I could stage
it. Hire a hall then pretend he left me at the alter...I have a few months to
dress that tale - for now my fable will keep me here in Los Angeles safe among
the Hollywood barracuda for Christmas. It's
wrong but I truly dread the holidays.
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