During the holidays, you’re supposed to do family things together—things like chopping Christmas trees, shopping for presents, or if you’re in my family, pounding eggnog.
And while some of those things can certainly be festive, nothing says family more than just being together at home in front of the fire. It’s supposed to be a relaxing Sunday afternoon, and I’m sitting bundled on the couch watching Home Alone for the fifth time this month. I start yelling at the TV, trying to convince Kevin McCallister to smarten up. It could all be over if he'd just call the cops. Yet instead of logically dialing 911, there Kevin is, jumping on beds while eating popcorn, impersonating mobsters to scare off nerdy pizza boys, and stealing toothbrushes from corner stores.
“Call the police!” I shout, waving my hands at the screen in a confused anger that is all too real, especially considering I’m watching a John Hughes movie.
“Relax,” my mom says. She’s addressing a bunch of Christmas party invitations, and sh e licks an envelope in a way that’s slobbery and vaguely animalistic. I am repulsed, and mentally note that not only does she need a new cookbook for Christmas, but a leash might be a welcome addition.
Suddenly, what sounds like a small explosion erupts. It’s the sound of bass oozing under the door of my brother’s room. He’s playing his “Christmas carols.”
“Ho Ho Ho, who would know/Get in my ride girl let’s go/ Yeah shorty it don’t matter if ya naughty or nice/ ‘cuz either way Imma buy you some ice/ so shake that booty while you spread that cheer/cuz you’re Penthouse’s pet of the year/ Merry Christmas to the ladies!"
“Turn that down!” my mom screams, her hands dramatically covering her ears.
We’re really getting into the holiday spirit.
I look back at the television as Kevin McCallister jubilantly slides down his staircase on a giant toboggan. Maybe he has the right idea! Maybe I should wish my parents away. Not dead, just away, you know, on a remote island. I wish them the best—I hope they’re served drinks by young, gorgeous people in skimpy bathing suits somewhere poolside. I hope they eat fresh seafood nightly, and lots of key lime pie for dessert, and that they all get happy and fat. I hope there is also a large television, so my brother can continue watching “Dexter” in sittings that are sometimes eight hours long, and so my mother never falls behind in “Desperate Housewives,” the show that has taught her everything— from how to act stupid and wear high heels to how sleep with your neighbor’s husband. ( Just joking about the last thing, in case you’re reading, Mom).
My dad enters the room and whines that my mom didn’t buy him ketchup and therefore he’s deemed his lunch inedible. He's scrambled some eggs, but doesn’t know how to eat them without his favorite condiment.
"But you were just at the grocery store," my dad laments as he clenches his plate with a tighter grip. "WHY?"
I feel really bad for him because it’s not like there a war going on, or people are starving in other countries. That’s so 2008.
"I forgot!" My mom says she's not his slave, and tells him maybe he should do some things for himself, and BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.
I wonder how much it might cost me to transport my parents somewhere like Bouvet Island, a tiny little Norwegian dot in the ocean that Wikipedia says is the world’s most remote island. That place might be far enough away, but it’s covered in glaciers and has no airport, so it’s not really a viable option.
I turn off Home Alone, as my brother’s rapping and my dad’s whiny blabbering has made my movie-watching experience completely void of any joy.
“I’m gonna head to the mall and do some Christmas shopping,” I tell my mom, the only person who cares about my whereabouts. As long as I’m not spending his hard-earned money or bleeding out from a stab wound, my dad probably doesn’t care what I’m doing. On second thought, he might care if I were doing drugs, especially if I were buying them with his money.
“I’ll come with,” my mom says, organizing her envelopes into a neat stack. She’s inviting all the divorced moms in her Zumba class (think funky Latin dance exercise class) to a Christmas party at a local bar near their gym. Because drinking is healthy. Especially after breaking a sweat. "I need to pick up my gift for the girls' grab bag."
I know she really just wants to escape the ketchup-fueled feud.
"Can you guys grab some ketchup on your way home from the mall?"
"Are you kidding me?” my mom says. “ Why don’t you stop at a grocery store and get some? What are you doing today besides sitting in your underwear yelling at the football game?"
"OK, fine," my dad says.
My mom and I start to gather our purses together. My mom realizes she’s run out of stamps and can’t mail all of the invitations.
"Honey," she says, switching her tone as she calls out to my dad. "Can you pick up some stamps, too?"
"I am not getting stamps,” my dad declares, wagging his finger. "I am not getting stamps I am not getting stamps, I am not getting stamps." He stands up. "I ain’t getting no stamps!"
You would have thought someone had just asked him to donate a kidney or go to a mission to Africa to help the homeless while simultaneously starving himself.
“But they sell stamps at the grocery store!” my mom exclaims. “ You are such a big…”—let's pretend she decides on a word that is printable—“...weirdo.”
"I’m a weirdo? Well, I’m a weirdo who's not getting stamps."
My mom gives him a look that could kill small children and freeze grown men into statues. My dad realizes she is genuinely, thoroughly pissed. She’s seething as she slams the door to the house. I’m laughing. He chases her from the house to her car. I follow.
"I was just kidding," he says, running to her car window. He is leaning on it, his face desperate. "I’ll get them."
"All I asked you to do was get some stamps. I go into a grocery store two times a week and you go once a year and you can’t manage to find some stamps, you big freak."
"I didn’t know the grocery store had them!"
"You didn’t know the grocery store had them? Are you kidding me? Have you been inside a Dominic’s EVER, Ed?"
Special Ed, I thought.
"I’m sorry, I’ll get them." He slips his hand through the rolled-down window and reaches for hers. My mom’s holding a cigarette and threatens to burn him.
I’m laughing so hard my tummy muscles hurt. I’m sweating so hard from my laughter. I’m burning. My heart is warm. I’m home. I’m on way to the mall. My family is fighting and my dad doesn’t know where to buy stamps. My mom flicks her cigarette onto the frosted pavement. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
Related post: The Diary of Ashley Spencer: Home—and Not Just for the Holidays
Topics: Life
Tags: family, the diary of ashley spencer, ketchup, feuds
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