The Only Way to Celebrate Thanksgiving is with Tequila and Buffy
The “holidays” are coming. That has always meant one thing to me: awkwardness. When I was a kid, living at my parent’s house, Thanksgiving always meant nobody came over. Who would, anyway? My mother forbid my father to be in contact with his family. They weren’t allowed over. So at elementary school, when my friends talked about having their grandparents over, and their cousins, and their aunts and uncles, I nodded and smiled and had no idea how to relate. Christmas was worse. Not only were we again isolated, but Christmas was always the day my mother had to struggle to repress her anger. Somehow, a part of humanity remained in her that realized she had to at least pretend to be civil on Christmas. This of course resulted in a lot of awkward, forced behavior. We would sit down to eat a shitty meal and pretend to like each other.
As I got older, it got progressively worse. My brother got a girlfriend, who had to come over on the holidays. Someone actually coming to our house? That never happened. And then, we had to be extra fake, because there was a stranger in our midst. When my brother and his girlfriend left to go to her parents’ house, my mother would immediately criticize him and his girlfriend. “God, she’s fat. He doesn’t look happy. He’s such a dick. Isn’t he? He loves her family more than ours. What a bastard.” This pattern was not unusual. My mother would criticize anyone immediately after they left the house. When my brother got engaged one Christmas, we all pretended to be happy for him. Nobody was. “He’s gonna get a divorce. He doesn’t love her. What was he thinking?”
Then I started attending holidays with my ex’s family. I thought, finally, for once in my life, I get to have a family, I get to experience the holidays the way they are meant to be. Little did I know I was entering into a realm where “traditional” literally meant the women should be in the kitchen. All thirteen Italian women. And I sat awkwardly with my ex, at the men’s table. Yes, there was a men’s table. Should I interject and actually try to have a conversation with someone at said table, the conversation would continue as if I wasn’t even there. My ex even ignored me. The woman, with choppy short hair, too much eyeliner, and jeans, could not speak at the men’s table.
This year, I’m doing the holidays in a new relationship. I’m hoping my awkwardness will be somewhat subdued. All I know is sometime around Thanksgiving I’m having a Tequila and Buffy celebration with a friend. From the way holidays have been “celebrated” around me, Tequila and Buffy is the only way to go.
