On Christmas morning, I woke up around 9 am. Esteban was still sacked out, since he had been up until 4 am playing his troll game and then talking on the phone with one of his WoW cohorts so I let him sleep in. I got dressed and started prepping the snacks for our impending visitors while taking care to be quiet. When he got up, we exchanged our presents for each other (Esteban got me the last season of Buffy on DVD, a new lens for my camera and a book from my Amazon wishlist. I got him three DVDs (Clerks II, Highlander and Shawn of the Dead), a bottle of cask strength Macallan, a graphic novel collection that he had on his Amazon wishlist, and a bunch of little stocking stuffer type things) and then tried to clean up the living room, which was destroyed after our Christmas Eve wrapping session.
As is standard for my family, noon came and went without a sign of my family, but my mother and Jon finally arrived at about quarter past. I didn’t realize how long it had been since my mother had been in my house, because she wandered around exclaiming about all the things that were different since she had last visited. My brother seems to have shot up another two inches. He thinks that he’s 6’3′, but there’s no way. He’s got to be 6’5′, if not taller.
A bit of an awkward moment happened when my mother looked at our kitchen door, covered in holiday cards from both friends and family and also the Holiday Card Exchange folks, with cards addressed to ‘Weet’ and ‘Esteban’. Eeek! How to explain that? She giggled at the picture of reader Amy’s daughter Molina Rose and then carefully inspected the card from Lana that had a picture of her dog on it. She asked what kind of dog it was (I guessed that it was a Pomeranian) and then asked what its name was. I admitted that I didn’t know. Luckily, she either didn’t notice the inside of the cards addressed to our internet pseudonyms or she didn’t say anything. I should have distracted her with the picture of Erika’s family. Erika was one of my best friends in junior high and my mom loved her to death. But I just wasn’t thinking.
My sister and Abby arrived and we opened up presents. I was a loser and gave my sister her birthday present (she gets screwed because her birthday is right before Christmas) stowed in red and green bags. My mother had monogrammed towels for Esteban and myself, while my sister pillaged our wishlists. Afterward, Abby played Karaoke Revolution and my mother headed out to finish wrapping presents for the second half of our family thing.
We packed up and headed over to Mafia Grandma’s house. On Saturday, I roasted a turkey (stuffed with lemons, apples, garlic cloves and fresh thyme, sage and rosemary, and then did the sage butter trick under the skin again) and then shredded it all, mixing it with a pan gravy. I don’t know if that’s common in other areas of the country, but around here, people eat that on rolls, sort of a turkified sloppy joe. I brought that and rolls to pair with her pea soup, and also had packed up some of the more easily portable leftovers from our morning get together. I left the cheese plate at home, because my relatives already think I’m snobby so I don’t want to arm them with Humboldt Fog and double cream brie. Aunt Brumhilda was there already, along with her daughter Malnourished, doing her best Paris Hilton impression. Brumhilda refused to acknowledge my presence, even meeting a direct question with a blank gaze. Whatever, lady. Whatever.
Esteban and I hid in the front parlor and watch football talk while there was randomness in the back half of the house. My sister had made sure to eat before she got to Grandma’s, as she objects to the level of cleanliness at the house. Granted, for years, the entire place was covered in long white cat hairs from Grandma’s nine or ten white Persians, but they are all dead now. Even still, it was nice to know that my house is considered acceptable for dining. Brumhilda and Malnourished ate in the kitchen, away from the rest of us. Unbelievable. I mean, with nine people in the entire house, it’s sort of obvious that they didn’t want to eat with the rest of us. I don’t even know what that was all about.
My Aunt Drusilla was crazily late and Esteban pointed out that this is her M.O. but since my sister had to ferry Abby to her dad’s family Christmas at 4 pm, at 3 pm, we declared that we should just start opening gifts. Honestly, I am so sick of coddling the late people in my family. The people who show up on time but have to leave after three hours are considered rude, but the people who come three hours late? Ah well, so it goes. Why do they even set times for these things anymore? It boggles the mind.
At some point during present opening, I started to get an itchy throat, but tried to ignore it. Brumhilda came in from her hiding spot in the kitchen and kvetched that she wasn’t READY to exchange gifts yet. Her gifts were, after all, ten feet away and she had to get them and everything. This year, Mafia Grandmother actually handed Esteban one of our joint shared gifts, which was nice, and my mother made a serious effort to talk to him, which was also nice. Then my throat started itching like crazy and then the swelling started and I could feel my airways closing. I tried to ignore it some more, but then the sneezing started. Amy and Abby had to leave, so we took the cue and gathered up our stuff too, telling my mother to make sure that Aunt Drusilla and my cousin Skinny got their presents. As we were walking out the door, Aunt Drusilla walked in and gave us a withering look for leaving already. She threw a gift at me and then Aunt Brumhilda started screeching that I couldn’t take the turkey I had brought because she wanted to save some for Grandma to eat later. I waved her off and said that I’d just pick up my Crock Pot later because I had to go. She smiled and said ‘Oh, OK!’ I later found out that she took home a pretty huge container of it for herself. Apparently she really does eat. She’d probably die if she knew how much butter and cream went into the sauce.
My allergic reaction started to calm down in the car and after I stood outside for awhile, it was pretty much gone except for some residual itchiness and wheezing. Man, I have no idea what that was all about. Maybe I’m allergic to one of the dogs.
Once we got home, we threw in The Godfather and watched it while drinking the leftover wine from the morning and then cracking one of the bottles of Cream Sherry from our Napa trip. We started to get hungry about the time of Don Vito’s death, so I made some oven General Tso’s Chicken and jasmine rice. It probably should have been pasta, given our selection of cinema, but Chinese food always seems appropriate on Christmas Day. Just as The Godfather always seems appropriate after prolonged exposure to my family. Although really, aside from the weirdness with Aunt Brumhilda, it really couldn’t have gone better. My mother wasn’t being a freak and everyone was in a relatively jovial mood and our house didn’t catch on fire. All in all, a decent December 25th.
Even still, I’m totally glad we don’t have to do it again for another year.
