Heckin’ bullshit – holiday edition

Happy holidays and New Year, fair readers. I sincerely hope you all had a most magical holiday season filled with treats, fulfilled wishes, satisfaction, and of course – good food.

This was a tough year for holidays for me.

As life goes it all started early with change, a raucous change like getting booted unceremoniously from the rented home (I wished to buy, I loved it so much) we had inhabited since January of 2020. It was a two-story purple dollhouse, almost Victorian in style, with a beautiful lawn, garden, and perfect marble counters in a kitchen whose windows overlooked a park next door. The folks who owned it emailed us one night, rudely giving us thirty days’ notice to vacate in the hottest real estate market (and the middle of the school year!) because they learned they could sell our beautiful home for over a million dollars. Then fast forward 45 days until the actual entry of our new-to-us-but-old, maybe haunted, and weird home. Still, at least, in the same school district. We sighed in relief that we had a place to go, shuddered at our empty bank accounts, but brave-faced it to the kid who was actually entirely delighted by our new location. We were within walking distance of the city’s kid’s pavilion, where after-school activities, an indoor pool, and dog park were at! Extra double bonus points that we were blocks away from a couple of friends of his; he was pumped. We sighed more relief, then got to the tedious task of building a “home” out of what actually felt like a hostile hostage situation. I set to what was left of my garden while working, and Bubba (husband) took care to unpack and set up, also while working.

One bummer though, and it even bummed the thirteen-year-old boy out: there were spiders here. Not cutesy lil soft-spoken daddy long-legs, more the behemoth creatures of 1950’s horror movies – spiders of such size and shape that peripherally I kept thinking were mice scurrying across the floors at any time of day. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you they were full, palm-size creepy crawlies that actually made noise as they skittered across my hard-laminate floor. Between April and May, we estimated that we zapped at least fifty of them. I’m thinking an ‘Oregon Trail crossing’ amount of giant Washington house spiders had found refuge in our walls when our front window was being replaced and there was particle board holding its spot, with a 1/2” gap on two sides of the wood, airing to the outside for close to a week. Bub even stepped into one that had found his slipper.

Onto? Into? It was a dark time.

Choosing violence, Bub had begun to spray various spider and insect poisons inside and out to start to cull this arachnid invasion and eventually, the spiders slowly disappeared. It had felt like we’d won the first battle!

Then, lo’! Four months into our homestead, the angels sang (quietly, mind you) as we inherited ‘Bianca,’ beloved dog from our elderly resident’s passing, and we plied and spoiled nine-year-old Bianca (newly christened ‘Bea’) in spades with rotisserie chicken and steak dinners. This was good. If I was ‘that white girl’ I’d say that the universe brought us to this weird house for this reason – sweet Bea was going to need us, and we totally showed up. At this level of love I would’ve fought an army more of giant spiders – just having affectionate, thankful, clingosaur-Bea around made us all happier. Our first dog Pepper, also almost nine years old, and my most beloved kitty seemed to truly enjoy Bea’s presence as well which was the icing on the cake.

In perhaps an omen of things to come, we took a bit of an emotional downturn for Thanksgiving when we hauled the majority of supper i.e: turkey, gravy, rolled grape leaves, labneh, veggies, pies, etc to my in-laws an hour north, which got fucking weird when MIL got into the bourbon and started weeping during dinner.

Odin had gotten himself into some trouble at school and she seemed to be having some PTSD response from her first son who passed on by suicide. I don’t think MIL remembers dessert, and we made a hasty exit to avoid a full scene.

We ignored the vibe, marching forward with a more or less ‘well that was weird’ emotional category, then optimistically trudged forward for the remainder of the holiday season: Christmas was coming! With the year being so rotten all of us were desperate to have some cheer, some merriment, some warmth.

My husband (as of the very day after Thanksgiving) hauled out Christmas gear and set to decorate the house with a very ‘Clark Griswold’ flare – we agreed that we’d be “the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nut house” in hopes that Santa would slide down the chimney that the house said it had, but super doesn’t. We thought that was just the one obstacle to our merrymaking Christmas spirit. We don’t need a chimney! We had each other and Bea! Oh, the optimism.

The stockings were hung on our installed pipe shelving with care, my impressive collection of snow globes that Bub contributes to every year lining them, Odin’s decade+ collection of nutcrackers splayed across a whole coffee table, lights both outside and inside; my favorite Christmas decoration, a very well-put-together, 14″ tall, stuffy squirrel in a smart little Christmas sweater and houndstooth pants perched above them all happily, with his arms out greeting the room. He still sits as my emotional support squirrel – comforting me with his little herringbone cap and gentle, embroidered smile. Outside and in, we were looking festive and excited.

Mid-December. Husband, the boy, and I go to a bonafide tree farm and the fellas chop down our first fresh tree. There’s snow on the ground as we laugh at my soundtrack of Dr. Demento Christmas hits: Tom Lehrer, Alvin and the Chipmunks, all the funny Christmas parody songs. When the kid looks up from his cell phone, he’s almost pleasant! A success. The tree is smaller than years prior, but, our ceilings are 7′ now, so we simply look forward to a very bright and shining tree, full to the brim of ornaments. Turns out, the angel tree topper Bub and I bought years ago sadly broke in the move, but, we bought a new one: an old-timey Santa with a little burlap sack, wreath upon his bearded head, lit by the ‘torch’ in his hands as well as a light beneath his robes. Odin is happy with the new ornaments we bought this year and when our decorating is done, he merrily goes off to play games. There’s no further thought of bad years or omens while Bub and I cuddle in a room lit by Christmas decorations that twirl from the power of candles. Feeling like a little kid, I tuck into my husband’s shoulder to gaze upon our handiwork and it’s warm and comforting. We’re not where we want to be, but maybe we’ll have a good Christmas.

It might not sound like it, but shockingly, yours truly has not been able to get into the Christmas spirit. During December, against all advice from several members of my medical ‘team,’ I worked more than forty+ hours a week which made my brain pudding. Maybe chowder. Whatever is harder to snorkel through to find words, the right feelings, or logic.

Anxiety is at an all-time high. Drinking is also at an all-time high as Alena realizes that she has been drinking to cope, not to taste delicious manhattans or peppermint patties. Rides in the car become impossible, especially after the drive to Bubba’s company Christmas party in Gig Harbor that turned into hours of disembodied, disassociated jumbles and full-body sweats thanks to enormous traffic, rain, and some wrong turns. Going down the freeway all I can imagine are all the cars that will obviously, inevitably, drive straight into us thanks to an eighty-one-year-old woman that drove directly into me at 55 mph in 2020. I’m medicated, but it’s barely keeping a cap on all the crazy pain that’s trying to burst out of me.

Christmas Eve. Saturday. My husband and I awake to a mutual mental list of items we must cook: fatayer, cranberry brioche rolls, cookies, koosa (stuffed squash.) We get to work at 12:30 pm and we finish at 7:00 pm. The child is distracted by Christmas movies and video games, allowing us happy peace while we prep, chop, fold, proof, cut, and roll our way through the full Christmas breakfast and dinner we want to provide. Lebanese food was my husbands’ special request and with the in-law’s blessing, that’s what I worked my butt off to make. We had fun, laughing, joking, dancing, drinking, and snacking. Might be the highlight of the season.

CHRISTMAS DAY – 8:00 AM

We awake early to a positively vibrating thirteen-year-old, completely sure that the one gift he most furtively wanted, a laptop, was under that tree.

A week prior to Christmas, as Odin was leaving the house to walk to the bus stop for school, Odin turned, looked at his Dad, and sweetly asked, “do you think Santa will bring me a laptop for Christmas?”

“Did you ask Santa for a laptop?” My husband replied.

“No..”

“Did you ask anyone besides myself or Alena for a laptop?” My husband inquired.

“No..”

“Then it doesn’t sound like you’re getting a laptop, buddy!” and with that and a loving shoo, husband pushed a visibly saddened child out the door.

Goddamn, imagine Odin’s surprise when there was suddenly a box about the shape and size that could *potentially* be a laptop suddenly under the tree Christmas morning! Kiddo wore his Santa hat and passed us each our round of presents, methodically going through aunts and mothers and in-laws, probably too slowly for him. The kid politely ripped through presents, his eyes gleaming as he got closer to that big rectangle.

We were down to gifts from myself and Dad. Odin was shivering, guessing his next present aloud while I reminded him that it’s rude to guess a gift’s contents in front of your giver to avoid potential embarrassment upon opening. Odin finally got in there to tear open that final, big rectangle. During this, he grinned like a madman.

He found a rather expensive erector set with the potential for 28 builds, and the kids’ demeanor changed entirely. He slumped, reading the box carefully, turning it around to make sure it wasn’t the ol’ classic laptop fake-out. He was dejected, heartbroken, and totally pissed.

Bubba tried to save the moment; we were emotionally prepared for this. “You love to build things, and always say that you prefer the building as opposed to playing with whatever you build, and so this one you have 28 options! You could build something, then take it apart, and build more! It’s huge!” He tried to give it his best salesman spin to invigorate some level of excitement or happiness out of the kid, but there was none to be had.

I chimed in because I believe the kid has a right to his own feelings, and disappointment can surely be felt on holidays as kids get older. It’s totally normal! “It was hard to shop for you this year kiddo, you weren’t into Harry Potter or dinosaurs or anything, and so we had to think outside the box a little bit. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but we love you, and Merry Christmas! I think you will love all these gifts, it might just take a moment to truly absorb their value.” I smiled deeply, sweetly, lovingly, with the real sub-thought of ‘don’t fuck up Christmas, you little asshole.’

Silly me, thinking that could help sway him out of his teenage assholery.

He continued to sulk, which didn’t bother me, but then when I excitedly asked him if he wanted to see what I made for breakfast – orange brioche rolls with fresh cranberries, brown sugar caramel, and orange icing, just like the last couple years – he slid over, looked in the pan, and remarked with a most unimpressed, kinda bitchy..

‘Looks OK, I guess..’ The comment slides out of his mouth like a slug.

Dude. I think my spirit left my body. I was his champion in Christmas disappointment, complete with hugs and reassurances despite both initial reactions to scold and return every present. I was on his side! I reasoned, lovingly! I played up the excitement!

And then this motherfucker talks down my labor intensive, we’re talking thirty-hour fresh cranberry brioche rolls?!

I think flames lept from my eyes. I immediately regretted every nice thing I ever did for him and though I wanted to, I did not knock his teeth out. Instead.

“COOL. Okay, buddy get out of the kitchen. I’ll make you some eggs instead then?” He looked confused.

I doubled down in my anger.

“GET OUT and I’ll make eggs for you for breakfast.” I think my tone was psycho-angry.

Someone once told me that if you don’t give your kid’s back the middle finger at least once a day – you’re not doing the real work as a parent.

Clearly, I am of the most hardworking parents out there.

He had his cranberry roll and eggs, and never lost that shithead attitude.

ACT TWO – Christmas Dinner with the in-laws (because they won’t drive to us:)

We arrive, after listening to another hour of ‘Dr. Demento Christmas’ on Spotify because I think Bub and I need a reprieve from genuine Christmas music after such a bummer of a day. Trying to smile again, be merry.

When we get to Rick and Kaaron’s things are looking good – it smells good, their tree is beautiful with too many ornaments, and Kaaron has an enormous, admirable, fully lit tiny Christmas village set up with tufts of fake snow billowing throughout its tiny streets. We exchange Christmas hugs and pleasantries until Rick goes back to his football game (Rams vs Broncos,) and Kaaron points out the Brie she is baking and the snacks all set up for us, weary travelers.

We set up presents and eat some appetizers. I had yet to consume anything outside of my morning coffee with Baileys in it, so I dig into the Brie she had enrobed and baked with pie dough.*

*Sidenote: you can’t use pie dough to bake brie in. It takes like 40-50 minutes to cook, and unless your brie is frozen, it will melt out and break, puddling into a gross mess. Stick to phyllo or puff pastry, only. Otherwise.. you’ll be eating raw, warm pie dough with your cheese and bread. Like I did, on Christmas.

We talk about how our niece/granddaughter Abbi out in Iowa is doing, and Kaaron asks if that new photo on Facebook is Abbi’s half sister.

“Abbi has a sister!?” Odin exclaimed. We casually answer yes, a half sister that we didn’t know about until recently. As he was a couple bourbons in, FIL Rick clarifies to the room that his deceased son James had been involved in a gang bang, creating the lovechild that is now Abbi’s half sister. Rick doubles down in his weird, too-transparent moment too quickly for us to stop it.

“But so many dudes were with that woman that night we can’t be sure it was James..”

“DAD!” Bub nearly shouts. “That’s enough!”

I want to chuckle but the look on Bubbas face and the look on Odin’s face tell me to just leave it alone.

I could see the questions pass over kids face and he looks at me, and I shake my head: nope. Not touching that with a ten-foot poll. We quietly continue watching football and opening presents. They’re lovely, with Odin’s dickheadedness tempered by my murderous gaze, and my husband’s absolute delight over most everything. They give wonderful presents! For all of us! The day is recovering!

Thankfully we get to dinner in a hurry: mine and Bubba’s prepared Lebanese feast of stuffed grey squash with rice, tomatoes, and herbs, individual hand pies made from a rolled, yeasted dough filled with both lemony, garlicky spinach with and without feta (fatayer,) as well as Impossible sausage-meat pies with pinenuts to appease said in-laws. Kaaron made pastitsio, a Greek pasta dish with pasta, béchamel, cinnamon, and a heady meat sauce (thankfully also using Impossible vegan mince.) It was comfort food central! I eagerly dug in but the in-law’s reaction was hard. They knew what we were bringing and even though I offered to bring up a roast leg of lamb they declined; and then Rick was pissed he was having a vegetarian Christmas. Which is what we are, and they were previously amenable to it.. I think it just took a few bourbons to spit out the truth: we fucked up Christmas dinner.

They wanted no leftovers. We left probably within 30 minutes of dinner. The ride home was difficult, obviously. If we were cartoon characters we’d all have those squiggly, curse word-filled clouds over all our heads, but still listening to Tom Lehrer and parodies of Christmas on the drive home. Morale is low, appetites are still wanting, and sadness prevails. Woof.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT

We arrive, finally at home, SO HAPPY. As the garage door closes I’m greeted by the music of Mannheim Steamroller playing my favorite Christmas song (Silent Night) since I left music playing in the house while we were gone. Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, The Andrews Sisters, all the big, classic names were in the rotation singing loudly and happily. I was delighted to be greeted by it. I can put on my sweatpants, lose the makeup, the boys can just relax, and then we can watch a movie! I bring the bags in with Bubba and breathe in relief. A couple days before I bought the dogs a New York strip steak that I was so stupid excited to slice up for an extra special doggy Christmas dinner. Peppermint Patties were on my mind and maybe a bath. Inside, I was ready to relax and let that Christmas spirit finally in.

Bubba lets the dogs outside while I’m putting away leftovers and feeding the cat, Mr. Big. I turn around to check on Biggie as the dogs come back in and there’s a big, brown something on the floor next to his dinner plate. How odd.

I look closer – there are big, wet brown pudding-like OH GOD IT’S POO .. I follow Bea around the kitchen and almost to my bedroom and she has shit everywhere. I do mean, everywhere. She circled the kitchen where I and Mr. Big were, [pooping] then she walked around the record player, [pooping] and then walked towards my bedroom to Bubba, [pooping.] Probably twenty to twenty-four soft, incredibly stinky, squishy pudding-like shits all over our house. Bing Crosby crooned about a ‘White Christmas’ in the background as I circled, surveying the damage, stunned. Then the smell hits me – and it is powerfully bad.

Bub starts gagging and vomiting near immediately – I flash to the thought of us ever having a baby with a diaper blowout because he would 100% be out of the game. Bub runs from the shit spectacle and yanks open the front door and vomits, knowing that he couldn’t make it to our bathroom. Once he regains himself somewhat he bolts to our room where I can hear the sound of his scream-vomiting into the toilet through our kitchen wall.

I grab the dog poop bags and get to work scooping and smearing up Bea’s soft-serve handiwork into the lavender-scented biodegradable bags. I pull several together, hastily tie them all shut and run them outside to the trash bin.

“Deck the Halls” by Nat King Cole comes on with the background of a Christmas tree and fireplace appearing on the TV. I can’t help but have one of those ‘for fucks sake’ moments, like when you’re abjectly baffled that you’re in this situation. Odin leaves his room and enters the hellhole of our living room, looks around, and asks, “what happened?”

I tell him to go back to his room right now lest he is employed to help scrub feces out of the one carpet I care about. The other carpet, sadly, gets tossed into the outside trash. Odin asks if he can play games.

“GET. OUT. Read the room, dude!” I snarl, while Burl Ives chirps in the background about Rudolph. I figure the faster I can scoop this poopocalypse up the sooner the smell will go away and I can get Bub to help.

I get it all out. Bub emerges, looking like the ghost of Christmas past. Clearly, there is nothing left in the guy. His face is gaunt with dark rings under his bloodshot eyes, and he goes straight for the kitchen cabinet where all the fabric/carpet cleaner is.

We continue scrubbing, mopping, then deodorizing and vacuuming for another thirty minutes. Racked, we finally stop, wash our hands, and look at our living room. I pour us two vodkas to shoot and decide that we should watch the animated ‘Grinch’ movie, feeling that it was the most appropriate choice.

Bea and Pepper didn’t get their New York strip steak dinner that night. Bea had kibble with a bunch of pumpkin puree and Pep had her normal meal but with extra special kisses.

For Boxing Day, Bub and I went to the store and purchased a new floor runner to replace the one destroyed by Bea’s poo. The girls did indeed get their steak dinner, and I kissed both of them ‘Merry Christmas’ as I set their bowls down.

Bea truly set that shitty frosting on our Christmas cake.

Cheers, to 2023. I truly believe that no matter what’s in store for us, it’s gotta be better than raw pie dough, grandpa’s gangbang stories, or a living room shit parade.