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I've yet to do any bunny scritching, which dismays me. I'd planned to floof Dannybun and present him with his bow, but a fat, Italian plumber sidetracked me with sucking pipes and shiny stars. Mea culpa. I should remember this squandered opportunity the next time I bemoan the weather. In other words, tomorrow, when it all goes to shit and the few hours of computer time I have will be gobbled by a paper that's due Tuesday.
I should remember it. But I won't.
Thanksgiving was quiet. Roomie and I were alone, so no one attempted to stab anyone with the carving knife, accused anyone of being a drunk or a heartless prick, or dredged up every sin, real or imagined, that Person A has committed since birth. Just us, a Butterball turkey breast, potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Very little mess and zero stress.
Not all of my family gatherings were nightmares growing up, but none of them was the unitive, Kumbaya daisychain diddle spree portrayed in holiday advertising, and I wish Madison Avenue would stop perpetuating the myth of the "normal American family" sitting at the table in glowing harmony. Maybe they do it it because it taps into the idealism in us, but it creates false expectations, and I wouldn't be surprised if the constant barrage of treacly advertising was found to be a factor in holiday depression.
Then again, maybe there are families who are genuinely happy to see each other. Mine wasn't one of them. They bought gifts and exchanged them for the right to belittle each other over too much booze, and when they got enough courage in their blood, the gloves came off. Instead of concentrating on the good moment they had then, they usually chose to exhume every rotten, worm-infested memory of the past and watch the maggots squirm between sips of wine.
My mother and grandfather, mostly. There are old hurts there that I'll never understand, but I've suffered for them. I loved my grandfather. I grew to be like him. But my mother hated him as much as she loved him, and so I seldom saw him. I still don't see him as much as I'd like. He's in his eighties now. I'm running out of time and running from the phone call I know must one day come. It's not fair. Rotten parents should die in their turn, but grandfathers should live forever.
Anyway, such is my life. This post is bleak and self-indulgent, but it's the way that it is. I'm tired of the Christmas music that's been seeping from the airwaves since October, tired of the insinuations that love is measured by the price of a diamond or an HDTV or a PS3 or a renovated garage full of Craftsman tools. I'm tired of watching people pretend that they give a shit about each other for two months out of the year when I know that by February, they'll be back on form, pissing and moaning about the crack addicts and unwed mothers who had the nerve to use their welfare checks to have a tolerable Christmas themselves. I'm tired of being told that every life everywhere matters when I can turn on the TV and see the truth. Or just open my eyes.
I'm tired of Christmas and tired of my country. I want to go somewhere else and be someone else and see the world through another set of eyes.
I should remember it. But I won't.
Thanksgiving was quiet. Roomie and I were alone, so no one attempted to stab anyone with the carving knife, accused anyone of being a drunk or a heartless prick, or dredged up every sin, real or imagined, that Person A has committed since birth. Just us, a Butterball turkey breast, potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Very little mess and zero stress.
Not all of my family gatherings were nightmares growing up, but none of them was the unitive, Kumbaya daisychain diddle spree portrayed in holiday advertising, and I wish Madison Avenue would stop perpetuating the myth of the "normal American family" sitting at the table in glowing harmony. Maybe they do it it because it taps into the idealism in us, but it creates false expectations, and I wouldn't be surprised if the constant barrage of treacly advertising was found to be a factor in holiday depression.
Then again, maybe there are families who are genuinely happy to see each other. Mine wasn't one of them. They bought gifts and exchanged them for the right to belittle each other over too much booze, and when they got enough courage in their blood, the gloves came off. Instead of concentrating on the good moment they had then, they usually chose to exhume every rotten, worm-infested memory of the past and watch the maggots squirm between sips of wine.
My mother and grandfather, mostly. There are old hurts there that I'll never understand, but I've suffered for them. I loved my grandfather. I grew to be like him. But my mother hated him as much as she loved him, and so I seldom saw him. I still don't see him as much as I'd like. He's in his eighties now. I'm running out of time and running from the phone call I know must one day come. It's not fair. Rotten parents should die in their turn, but grandfathers should live forever.
Anyway, such is my life. This post is bleak and self-indulgent, but it's the way that it is. I'm tired of the Christmas music that's been seeping from the airwaves since October, tired of the insinuations that love is measured by the price of a diamond or an HDTV or a PS3 or a renovated garage full of Craftsman tools. I'm tired of watching people pretend that they give a shit about each other for two months out of the year when I know that by February, they'll be back on form, pissing and moaning about the crack addicts and unwed mothers who had the nerve to use their welfare checks to have a tolerable Christmas themselves. I'm tired of being told that every life everywhere matters when I can turn on the TV and see the truth. Or just open my eyes.
I'm tired of Christmas and tired of my country. I want to go somewhere else and be someone else and see the world through another set of eyes.
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