Oh, Christmas. You’re over for yet another year, and as much as it pains me to say so, I’m happy.I wasn’t very into the whole holiday spirit this year and I’m not sure why. About a week before Christmas, I realized that I had purchased one present – ONE – and that I really needed to get my ass in gear. I never wanted to be one of those adults who bitch and moan about how much they hate Christmas, and since it was apparent that I was on the fast track to getting there, I decided to make the effort to de-grinch.
I started by putting up the little artificial tree that my grandparents gave me years ago, which they themselves purchased in the early 1970s. It’s an interesting combination of tacky and sad, but I sort of like it.
On Sunday, Benjie and I headed back to Rhode Island for the holiday, this time via the wonderful cheapness of a Metro North train to New Haven, where his parents were kind enough to pick us up. Total cost: $14, versus approximately $160 for Amtrak. Aw yeah. We’re cheap like that.
I think I’ve mentioned before that on Christmas Eve, my family always goes to Mass and then has dinner at my grandmother’s house, where my mom’s aunt and cousin join us. Over the summer, though, we moved my grandmother into an apartment in one of those housing-for-the-elderly type places. It’s not assisted living; my sister and I have instead taken to calling it “college for old people.” And it really is like a dorm – she’s on the second floor, and she’s friends with everyone around her, and they all get together and hang out in each other’s apartments and drink wine and play cards or bingo or whatever and take bus trips to Foxwoods. So basically, she’s having a blast, and my parents no longer have to worry about her living alone and navigating stairs to do laundry in the basement.
ANYWAY. More about that later. My point is, we decided to continue the tradition of having Christmas Eve dinner in her tiny apartment instead of making the 30+ minute commute back to my parents’ house in deepest, darkest southern Rhode Island.
Unlike last Christmas, my sister was home for the holidays. I haven’t seen her in a while, since her previous nursing assignment was in North Carolina and her current gig is in Ohio. And while she’s still the same peach that she always is (eye roll), I discovered that she’s really off her fucking rocker in terms of her food issues.
She’s by no means fat (I think she’s 5’2” and maybe 115 lbs?), but she’s always been a bit fucked in the head in terms of what she likes and what she allows herself to eat. So while she’ll bitch at my mom about what’s for dinner, refuse to eat it, and steam herself some chicken and veggies while predicting heart attacks for the rest of us, she’s also the one who will stand at the island in the kitchen and eat directly out of the half-gallon of Edie’s Slow-Churned ice cream while insisting that it’s low-fat and low-calorie and doesn’t count.
Yeah. Sure.
This time, though, she was over the top. She was being a pain in the ass anyway on Christmas Eve (she spent the entire car ride to church worrying about whether her knee-high black leather fuck-me boots made her look like a whore), but when we were at my grandmother’s, she turned into a little food nazi. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast that morning and was starving, so I immediately attacked the deviled eggs and the potato chips and dip (yeah, we’re all classy like that). Sister Dearest eyed me and said snottily, “Hmm…it’s pretty funny that you can eat like that and not gain weight.”
I rolled my eyes, said something about not eating since breakfast, and basically ignored her. That’s when she said something about the pasta salad I made…she asked me not to add dressing to it until she had taken some.
I don’t know why I didn’t just let her have her way, but we all know that I can be a fucking bitch too, and I was sick of listening to her. So rather than make her happy, I upended half a bottle of Robusto Italian Dressing over the pasta, and I am not exaggerating when I tell you that she SHRIEKED.
Essentially, she pitched a hissyfit, and my father? Does not take kindly to her hissyfits.
“For Christ's sake, just eat it and then go throw it up!” he yelled at her, and I immediately began to guffaw while my mom smacked him and protested loudly that bulimia is the LAST thing Kara needs, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, and that he should just be quiet.
I’ll end the Kara Food Chronicles by noting that on Christmas morning, she decided to bake box brownies, and rather than adding the standard egg, oil, and water that they call for, she instead substituted Diet Coke. And while god knows that I love my Diet Coke, I’d rather it wasn’t an ingredient in brownies.
They crumbled to pieces when she tried to cut them, and I think she ended up eating them directly out of the pan. But it was okay, because they were made with Diet Coke.
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So – back to Christmas Eve and my grandmother’s apartment. As I said, when she moved in over the summer, she met a bunch of people, some of whom she knew years and years ago, when she was in high school. (She’s lived in the same town her entire life.)
One of the people she met is a guy named Bob, who has been extremely friendly and helpful. Bob built her a new table, shampooed her living room rug, installed new floor tiles in her entryway, and has accompanied my grandmother on several trips to the casino.
When my mom got wind of this, she decided to gently tease my grandmother and asked her what was going on with Bob.
My grandmother, horrified at the idea that someone might think she was even looking at another man and therefore defiling my grandfather’s memory and their 50+ years of marriage, admitted (rather uncomfortably), “It’s not like that. Bob…is gay.”
My mother burst into laughter, and when she relayed the story to me, we both laughed together at the idea that my grandmother – the woman who makes disgusted noises and faces when she watches two men kiss on “Brothers & Sisters” – is, at age 80, a fag hag.
Bob baked a pie for my grandma on Christmas Eve and stopped by to drop it off, so we naturally begged him to join us. He was in his “baking clothes” and was rather uncomfortable, so he agreed to stay only for a drink.
He did bring his cute little Lhasa apso along with him, though, and we all laughed as she dragged her toy along with her and begged for food from all of us.
“What’s her name?” someone asked, and I paused in taking a sip of wine to hear the answer.
“Halle Berry,” came Bob’s reply, and I wanted to die laughing.
Best Christmas Eve ever.
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A few random pics of my Christmas, including the obligatory Remy shot…
