November 24, 2011
A New Leaf in Late Autumn
Although I still bemoan the fact that Americans, as a collective, continue to torture ourselves and each other by gathering around the Thanksgiving people with people we can't stand, in honor of some idealized tradition that probably never existed in the first place (and will continue to secretly hope that we give it all up and just go out for pizza with people we actually like one of these years), today, I am going to try a new approach.
Wow, that sentence was Dickens-ingly long.
Now, before I go ahead and tell you my approach, let me first give you the cast of characters that I am going to spend MY Thanksgiving dinner with:
Billi: My BFF and baby sis, the consummate benevolent hostess.
Brad: Billi's husband, a loud and often-exasperated yet good-hearted man.
The Girl Child: She has called "dibs" on sitting next to Aunt Wenchie.
The Boy Child: My little angel and fellow middle child.
The Spare: Eight hundred pounds of personality crammed into a 45 lb. body. If anyone has less of a brain-to-mouth filter than me, it's him.
Grampa: My Dad. Ninety percent hearing loss plus stereotypical Nordic stoicism equals not a chatty man. We sometimes forget he's there.
Gramma: My Mom. She tries hard to keep up the smiles and good-natured conversation but she is not a magician, people! She can't do this alone!
Papa: Brad's Dad. Wow, where to begin. A man who likes to start sentences with, "So I was in line at WalMart behind a family of towel-heads..." So charming. Luckily, his size makes him easy to escape because he doesn't move around much.
Nana: Brad's Mom. She'd rather be playing poker than with her family, ...and sometimes, I can't really blame her.
Brad's Sister: One word -- narcissist. Also has no qualms about dropping the F-bomb in front of the kids when her husband displeases her.
Brad's Brother-In-Law: Three words -- professional stand-up comedian.
Brad's B.I.L.'s Father: We call him Homer, although he's really exactly like Grandpa Simpson. Exactly.
Husband: The poor, loyal soul that I continue to drag into the most horrifying and awkward family situations.
My [airquotes] favorite [end airquotes] Christmas was the one where Brad's B.I.L. forgot to put the presents in the trunk, which opened him up to some very audible and trucker-like beratings from his wife. The poor, hen-pecked guy was going to drive home (an hour each way!) to get them -- AT HER INSISTANCE -- until we all stepped in and convinced them that Christmas is about being together, not presents, and we'd really rather he be with us for dinner than out driving around.
Looking back, I'm sure he probably would have relished the opportunity to flee that scene, but hell if I was going to let her win!
Even with my brief descriptions, you can see how this crowd posesses the potential for serious annoyance. Indeed, I have been anticipating this Thanksgiving with a mixture of hunger and dread. It is difficult when you never know what to expect. But I am determined to walk into the festivities with an attitude of gratitude and good will.
Of course, this will require a zen-like meditative state during the entire hour-long drive to Billi's abode, in order to prepare myself. But it's not like I'll have many distractions. Husband will be listenting to his Christian rock station. Mommie Dearest will be quietly talking to herself. Dad will be not hearing either of them. And it's not like any of them will be expecting me to chatter cheerfully to fill the void because I have cleverly avoided ever setting that presidence.
Yes, I am determined to greet my fellow feasters and see them -- not as one-dimensional cartoon characters -- but as people with quirks and foibles, but also with the potential for mirth and kindness and great tolerance for my quirks and foibles.
It's not going to be easy, and I'm not going to guarantee that I will be entirely successful. But I will keep reminding myself that a charitable attitude is, at the very least, good for one's digestion.