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I’m Dreamin’ of a White Trash Christmas!

For the holiday season the BF got a little taste of a down home, white trash, blue collar Christmas when he came to my folk’s house this year to exchange gifts. This is the first year my family has officially recognized the BF and I as a couple. My mother decided to have a special holiday dinner just for her new “daughter-in-law”, so that she may shower him with presents.

Now the BF, in my opinion, has never had a REAL family Christmas. To be in the true spirit of the holiday there should be music, presents, eating, drinking, and lots of yelling. These are things that give you that warm feeling to let you know you’re home.

The BF gets none of that at Christmas. Our neighbor describes his holiday as an “F cubed Christmas” F cubed standing for “Forced Family Fun.” Everyone is disturbingly nice to each other with painted on smiles and uncomfortable hugs. There is no ripping into your presents on Christmas morning; each moment is planned out accordingly. On Christmas Eve the family is scattered through out the house in spare beds, on mats and inflatable mattresses on the floor next to the dog. Everyone wakes up or is woken up at the same time is order to start this joyous season on schedule. Breakfast is prayed over, served, and eaten in a timely manner so as not to throw the holiday off track. Once the morning dishes are cleaned up and put away the holiday “fun” begins. The whole family sits around the immaculate living room awaiting their turn to open a present hands folded and backs straight. Each present is handed out to each person by a designated “gift giver” one at a time to lengthen this festive torture. After each person opens his or her present the BF’s mother feverishly takes 4 or 5 pictures (with a flash) as if to capture to every second of that moment on film. I imagine you feel like you’re being stalked by Santa’s little paparazzi. Even though the children in the BF’s family are much older now his mother still feels compelled to dowse any potential conflict that may arise. She does this by giving all of them the same random gifts that no one really needs. For example, they all got fleece lined denim jeans; I ask you, if you’re not planning a hike to the Yukon who needs fleece lined jeans?

The rest of the BF’s “fun-filled” holiday continues later in the afternoon at dinner. Once again after praying, serving and eating the dinner that was oh-so carefully prepared by the family’s maternal peacemaker and resident control freak, it’s game time! This is an activity, well, more of a distraction, perpetuated by the parents to keep this dysfunctional brood from communicating in any way, shape or form. Other than the occasional “good game” or “way to go”; there is no actually talking. When the game of Boggle, Monopoly, or Scrabble is complete there is a mass exodus toward the door. The children who don’t live at home anymore give the ‘rents a quick hug good-bye and disappear quickly into night under the cover of darkness and screeching tires hitting the road. For the kids who still live at home there is a quick escape to their rooms where they hide under their beds in the fetal position until next year.

This is a sharp contrast to the Blue Collar Christmas he experienced with my family this year. We arrived at my parent’s house a little early so we could relax a bit. We had spent the 2 hours previous to the visit franticly trying to get all of our Christmas cards completed and mailed before January sixteenth. Now, the walk from the driveway to the door takes about 5 seconds. It took us about 10 minutes. Mom stores the cookies and the fudge she’s been baking since the day after Thanksgiving in the garage. As we walked in the door we could hear pots bubbling on the stove and smell my step-dad’s world famous “Beer Ham” cooking in the oven. For those of you who are not in the know, “Beer Ham” is ham basted in a glaze of water, brown sugar, and one bottle of dark beer. To DIE for! As usual, my step-dad was in the kitchen, standing in his tattered sweats with a Red Dog beer in one hand and stirring a pot of something with the other. He greeted us as we walked in and told us we’ll be eating at five. Whenever my step-Dad says “We’re eating at five,” what he really means is seven. The BF and I hung up our coats next to step-dad’s massive collection of Jeff Gordon caps and made our way to the living room. There we found my mother in her recliner, covered in the New York Yankees fleece blanket I made her last Christmas watching NASCAR. Right next to her on the floor were her two cats “24” (named after Jeff Gordon’s NASCAR number) and “Penny.” In an odd way these two felines have become my furry little siblings.

One time when”24” was a kitten I house sat for my mom and step-dad while they went out of town. When I arrived I checked the ‘frig to see what food they had left behind for me to eat. It was empty. But the cat had a 20 .lbs bag of food at his disposal and unlimited treats. I noticed the answering machine had messages, so I played them. Both messages were from my mother wondering if the cat was all right. Needless to say, I didn’t house sit for them anymore.

The BF and I sat down on the couch pretending to watch football with my mother, with my step-dad in the kitchen cooking away. Now, my mother is not one to leave my step-dad unattended in any room of the house for very long. It may be out of concern she does this but more than likely it’s out of curiosity. People in my family are well known nosy-bodies (me included.) My mother hovered around my step-dad for a bit wondering what mess he had gotten himself this time, when we heard her say, “What did you do?” Apparently, in the time it took us to walk in the house and sit down my step-dad had cut a chunk out of his thumb while slicing potatoes. Of course being a typical man he didn’t think it was any big deal. So he wrapped some gauze around the wound and went about his business. When my mother went into the kitchen to “check up” on dinner, the gauze was bright red. My step-dad didn’t miss a beat in answering my mother’s previous question, “What did you do?” with a toss away “Nothing. I’m fine.” After hearing that my mother huffed back to the living room and returned to her chair rocking back and forth with attitude. A few moments later, my step-dad made the announcement he was going for a ride and he would be back in a while. Slightly buzzed he stumbled around looking for his shoes and coat. He was off to the emergency room. My mother tried to convince my step-dad to have me to drive him to the hospital but he wasn’t having it. He told my mother he would be fine AGAIN and to watch the potatoes while he was gone. My mother has a unique perspective when it comes to situations like this. Instead of being concerned for her husband’s well being, she was more concerned with the fact she had to cook now. This is another trait that runs through my family along with the nosiness gene.

About an hour later my Auntie E showed up with one of her three sons to join us for dinner. Auntie E loves drama. She is the most content when something in her life or the lives of one of her boys is going wrong. She wears chaos like a comfortable overcoat that she never takes off. Upon arrival my mother told Auntie E her oldest son has been calling for her wondering where she is. The reason why he was calling was because Auntie E was driving his car. She had an accident with her car a week before. So she asked to borrow my cousin’s car, a car which Auntie E paid for and gave to her oldest son on the condition he would pay her back. She has yet to see one dime. Auntie E’s oldest son is a bit, shall we say, off the beam. When he arrived at my mother’s house with his younger brother he began passing out attitude and making snide comments to Auntie E about driving HIS car. My mother was not having this in her house and promptly gave my cousin a choice. Stay and shut up or leave? He left. Everyone in the room let out a collective sigh of relief, all except Auntie E. She got herself so worked up; she popped a Xanax and hopped a train for La-La Land for the rest of the evening. Mean while, her two younger boys spent the rest of the night devising plan to eliminate “the problem” (aka their brother) and some how make it look like an accident.

Eventually my step-dad came back from the Emergency Room with his thumb wrapped in shiny new gauze. From what he told us they couldn’t stitch his thumb together. They actually had to fill in the missing chunk with some sort of medical wood putty. After grumbling about waiting for an hour for them to do something to his thumb he could have done in his workshop with spackle; he cracked open another Red Dog beer and continued to cook.

The night continued with a little less turmoil than it had started with. We sat down and feasted on the “Beer Ham.” Later on we participated in the unbridled frenzy of opening presents. It confused the BF a bit. People were throwing presents at him instead of handing them out one at a time. He didn’t know where to begin. But he soon got the hang of how things worked and began shredding wrapping paper with the best of them. When all was said and done, the BF got a taste of what the holidays are all about. Families aren’t perfect and they shouldn’t try to be. They say and do things that drive you up a wall but in the end they are still your family. And you’re stuck with them.