Her arthritic aged hands reach feebly toward the pink box. “Thank you hun, you’re such a sweetheart,“ Grandma Wendy says.
“Welcome Gammie,“ Lisa replies as she twiddles her fingers in preparation to tear into a gift of her own.
My wife stands there focused as a hawk with camera in hand. She waits for the perfect Kodak moment to pop up. I am not here right now. My mother, love her to death, is a fungal infection that won’t resolve. Around the holidays she calls non-stop and sends cards every week in preparation for her arrival. Oh how I loathe the holidays. If that sadistic, depressed creature called the Grinch were real, I am him now. Ever since Roy, my father, passed away a few years ago, Mom has never been the same. It seems as though every moment is her last. This is how I have come to the conclusion that holidays suck.
Another gift with brightly colored ribbons and decorations is passed around to my wife. She hands the camera off to me as though I really wanted it. “Thanks dear, smile for the picture,” I say to Eve and Lisa embracing each other. I wonder if Wild Turkey and eggnog mix well? I slap a magazine smile on my face as the flash goes off.
As they continue the tradition of gift-giving I walk toward the den exterior window. I scan outside to see the snow continuing to fall. I turn and look over my shoulder as the noise in the background persistently pounds against my ears. Yeah, you thought Quasimodo had it bad with the bells. These harlots never shut up. You know, I think they actually like this shit. I turn back toward the window. Looking across the street I see two teenage girls across the street having a snowball fight. They are supple, vibrant, and dressed like giddy snow bunnies ready for the slopes. I imagine myself hiding behind a tree in their front yard, waiting for a surprise attack on them. I smile, sipping on my eggnog. Walking toward the tree I’m hiding behind, I try to sneak a quick glance around the tree. I feel a snowball pummeling my face. I grab a handful of snow and chase after. I lose my footing and fall. The girls jump and dog pile me. Oh what fun we are having. My breath becomes heavy and I smile as I fog the window pane. A tap on my right shoulder awakens me. “Dear, are you gonna open your presents now?”
I return to my mundane afternoon of pure holiday joy. My wife walks to the kitchen as I unwrap a present given to me from my mother. “Thanks…Mom.” I respond hugging her and smiling hard enough to shatter my teeth. I put down the box containing Fruit-of-a-Loom underwear and ugly Stafford ties. She always know what I want for Christmas.
There is a distinct aroma hanging in the warm air. Oh, it’s just the smell of another holiday ham being burned to a crisp. Great! It’s another meal that could turn away a bulimic. I’m sure that she expects us to eat this crap again. When will she ever learn?
I go outside to dispose of the trash. Walking toward the garbage can I inhale a refreshing breath of air. Standing over the receptacle I imagine the two girls again. They are building a snowman in the front yard. They giggle and dance around the carrot nose figure. They embrace the snowman in a sultry, seductive way. Lucky bastard! I toss the Hefty Glad Bag into the garbage can and slam the aluminum lid. I know…how can someone hate Christmas time? I don’t hate the idea of Christmas and all the giving stuff. I just can’t stand my family on days like this. Despite my wife’s reputation, she’s really an obsessive cleaner and a compulsive shopper. Her half-assed attempts to be Martha Stewart in the kitchen are subdued by her succubus credit card debt. And people wonder why I’ve been looking a little rough lately.
