Spending the Holidays with People I Want to Punch in the Throat

by Jen Mann

  However, Sunday was a whole other story. We always went to church on Sunday and came home for lunch. After lunch, my parents always retreated to their bedroom, leaving C.B. and me to fend for ourselves. With only one TV to share, fights quickly ensued.

  My brother and I have differing memories when it comes to our fights. I remember fighting a lot. He does, too. That’s the only memory we have in common. I remember a lot of screeching and yelling and threatening of bodily harm. C.B. just remembers actual bodily harm. He could write his own book about how much alleged abuse he suffered at my hands. According to him, it’s a small miracle he’s still alive. Oh, C.B.! He has such an active imagination, you’d have thought he would have been the one to grow up and write half-true books. Instead he has one of the least imaginative jobs out there. He’s a CPA.

  But I digress. Back to Sundays. On Sundays, my parents would lock themselves in their room and my brother and I would immediately start fighting over what we should watch on television. My brother and I would finally grow tired of allegedly beating the crap out of each other, and we’d go looking for our parents to referee.

  We always found the door bolted, so we switched from fighting to whining through the tiny crack between the door and the jamb. “Can we come innnnn?” C.B. would whine. “Jenni’s banging my head into the floor because I won’t let her watch MTV.”

  “Shut up, C.B. That’s not true, Mom! C.B. keeps kicking me in the stomach because he thinks I’m on his side of the couch.”

  We would hear muffled voices on the other side. We’d strain to listen.

  “What did you say, Dad? Did you say Jenni should stop hogging the couch?”

  We would listen more, but we couldn’t understand anything that was being said.

  C.B. and I would look at each other and shrug. We couldn’t figure out what was going on. What were they doing in there? Why was the door locked? It was never locked any other time except for Sunday afternoons. What was so private in there that we couldn’t be a part of it, too?

  “Mom? I want to go to Kristie’s house. Can I go?” I’d yell.

  Muffle, muffle, muffle. Did someone just giggle?

  “I want to go to a friend’s house, too!” C.B. would yell.

  “No!” Mom would yell back. “C.B., you cannot go off on your own, and Jenni, you cannot leave C.B. You are in charge out there! Go find something to do! Go watch HBO! We pay a fortune for it and you should watch it more!”

  Dad always chimed in with a totally inappropriate movie suggestion. “They had the HBO guide in my room at the hotel. Cujo is on at three today. You guys should go watch it.”

  Muffle, muffle, muffle. Okay, someone was giggling in there!

  “Moooooommmmm, we’re so bored out there. C.B. is being a brat and won’t do what he’s told. And Cujo is totally rated R, Dad. C.B. can’t watch that.”

  “Jenni!” It would be my father this time, using his stern don’t-you-dare-talk-back-to-me-young-lady voice. “Listen carefully to me. Your mother just told you to find something to do. Now go do that!”

  “Daaaaddd, Jenni is being a jerk and she shoved my head into the wall!”

  “I did not!”

  “You did!”

  “Hey!” The door would open just enough for my dad to stick his head through. “Listen to me, you two. You need to get away from this door and go find something to do, because your mother and I need some privacy.”

  “But why?” I would whine. “What are you guys doing in there?”

  “Why are the lights off and the shades closed?”

  “Oh my God, Dad, are you in your underwear? Ewww.”

  “Knock it off, Jenni. Go ride your bikes or something. Your mother and I need to be alone.”

  “But why?”

  “Yeah, why? We want to come in there with you.”

  “You can’t. We’re doing something very secret in here.”

  “What kind of secret? What are you doing in there?”

  “We won’t tell.” C.B. would try to push his way in.

  “You can’t come in here, because we’re…we’re…” We would hear our mother mumble and giggle. Seriously, what was with all the giggling? And then he’d say, “You can’t come in because we’re wrapping your Christmas presents!”

  C.B.’s eyes would light up. “What? Christmas presents? Cool!”

  I was a tad more skeptical—at first. “But you’re in your underwear, Dad.”

  “I’m more comfortable in my underwear. I need to be comfortable when I’m wrapping Christmas presents.”

  “But it’s August, Dad.”

  “That’s right! I know it’s August, Jenni, but we’ve got so many presents for you and your brother we have to start wrapping now or else they’ll never get done. You know how your mother likes the presents to look extra nice. It takes her a long time to make the packages so pretty. Don’t tell your mother I said so, but I think I saw some Guess jeans in a bag in her closet.”

  That was all it took. My skepticism would flit away as I dreamed of beautifully wrapped packages containing Guess jeans and Princess phones.

  “Dad, are you wrapping a skateboard? Because I really need it before December. Maybe I could get it early?”

  “Hey! C.B., I’m not telling you what we’re wrapping. I’m just telling you that if you want these presents, you’ll find something else to do and leave us alone to…wrap in peace!”

  Well, nothing could motivate us like the thought of presents, so C.B. and I would skedaddle and leave our parents to their very private wrapping sessions.

  Never once did it occur to either of us that this excuse was used just as much in August as it was in November. Never once did we think, “Hey…wait a minute. They wrap Christmas presents every weekend, but we’re lucky if we get ten presents to open on Christmas morning. The math just doesn’t add up.”

  I’d like to thank my parents for scarring me for life by making me forever equate the phrase “I have to wrap some Christmas presents” with “Let’s get it on!” I really blame C.B. for this more than myself, because he was the one who was supposedly “gifted.” I was the kid who always brought down the class average. No one expected genius from me, but C.B. should have known better.

  I was thinking about taking my kids to see Santa today. I always like to get a picture of them dressed up in their good Christmas clothes, and it’s usually a hassle to wrangle them out of their jeans and swishy shorts. However, we’d gone to church earlier with my parents, the kids were dressed to kill, and we were near my favorite mall Santa, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity.

  I realized, though, it was the Sunday before Christmas and the mall would be a zoo. Ugh. No way did I want to even try to get near that. The kids would be out of school in a couple of days and I could take them then, when the lines might be shorter.

  I know what you’re thinking: C’mon, Jen, really? You get your kids all dressed up and haul them to the mall to get their picture taken with Santa? I thought you were cooler than that.

  Sorry to disappoint. As I noted earlier, we all have our skeletons in our closet. I’m not perfect.

  You must understand, while I am a card-carrying underachiever, I am the daughter of an overachiever. I am a total deadbeat and a major disappointment to my mother when it comes to Christmas. But a few traditions, like the “nice” Santa picture and the annual Christmas letter, have rubbed off on me. We do share DNA, after all.

  When we were growing up, my mother always took my brother and me to get our picture taken with Santa. It didn’t matter how rich or poor my parents were at the time—by God, we were budgeting for that Santa picture!

  There isn’t a picture of me crying on Santa’s lap, because my parents thought that was cruel. By the time C.B. came along, they decided it was perfectly fine to photograph their crying baby on a strange man’s lap. I think that one might be my favorite.

  Every Christmas my mom puts our pictures through the years on display around the house so we can see how adorable
we once were. How sad is it that I peaked at age four?

  So, here is my face, an arm, and my hand testing the waters with Snoopy.

  These photos were so embarrassing growing up (the hairstyles, the clothes), and I feel it’s only fair that now I get to inflict the same pain and suffering on my children. It’s these little things that bring me joy during the holidays.

  As C.B. and I got older, this tradition still continued. We hated going to see Santa and getting our pictures taken. We would whine and fuss, but my mother would insist and my father would yell at us to “do something nice for your mother for once,” so off we’d go.

  Once I hit thirteen, I was able to convince my mother that she really only needed C.B. in the photo. I also made sure that she noted my age, because I didn’t want him to finagle his way out of the Santa picture before he was thirteen. I’d had to endure it for a full thirteen years, and so should he!

  My mother was devastated that I wouldn’t do the picture anymore, but she didn’t fight me on it. I think she thought I’d see the error of my ways and come around eventually. Boy, was she wrong.

  I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point before he was thirteen, my brother was let out of his commitment. There is one year where the picture is of just my mom and my dad on Santa’s knee!

  My first Christmas break home from college, I told C.B. it would be funny if we went to the mall and got a picture with Santa. I didn’t have a real present for my mom, and I thought a twelve-dollar picture would be worth more than any expensive gift I didn’t want to buy. I told my brother he’d have to split the cost with me if he wanted credit for the present. (Those photos are pricey, and I wasn’t going to let him get credit if he didn’t cough up the dough.)

  We hit the “popular mall” on Christmas Eve and the Santa line was outrageous, so we decided to try the “gross mall.” You know the gross mall—it’s the one that no one really goes to. Every town has one. Ours was a semi-abandoned mall with two anchor stores and about five open stores throughout the middle of the mall. The rest of the storefronts were literally boarded up. We were sure the lines would be so much shorter, because we didn’t think any of the über-moms would deign to go to that mall with their precious pumpkins. We, on the other hand, could care less.

  The line was about what we expected—a few exhausted and stressed-out moms who were trying to make memories (damn it) without having to wait six hours at the good mall.

  We got in line and waited our turn.

  When we got up to Santa, I took one look at him and nearly backed out of the deal.

  My mother had never taken us to see the gross mall Santa. I have childhood memories of going to see Santa where we waited something like eight hours (or so it seemed) in a winter wonderland maze on the top floor of Macy’s flagship store in New York City. I remember being so hot from all the twinkling lights and having minor panic attacks about locating fire exits, because I was sure those lights would somehow short out and cause the place to blaze up. I can remember having to pee so badly and being trapped in the line with no hope of a “chicken exit” for the bathroom. I can remember happy, borderline-maniacal “elves” asking my parents if we had any “special needs” (Yes, a cup to pee in!) and telling us, “The wait’s not much longer now. You’re almost to the North Pole!” and then we’d turn the corner and see miles of people still ahead of us. Liars! I’m going to wet myself and I’m wearing my nice Christmas outfit! When we finally got into the little cottage to see Santa, he was a good-looking St. Nick with rosy cheeks, a real beard, a big tummy, and a pricey costume. Macy’s hired pros. Once, the Santa we got could even speak English to me and C.B. and French to our friends who had just moved to the States. We all believed for another year after that one!

  The Santa at the gross mall was nothing like the Macy’s Santa. He was a dirty mall Santa like none other.

  He was skinny. Like meth-head skinny. Who hires a skinny Santa? The gross mall does.

  His beard was real, but it was yellow.

  His hair was gray, but it was lank and filthy.

  His costume was worn out on the thighs where the kids sit, and the white fluffy parts were dingy and gray.

  He took one look at me and smiled—actually, I believe the word is leered—then patted his bony thighs and said something to the effect of “Have a seat, sugar.”

  We went up to him and I said, “We’re too big to sit down on your lap. We’ll just sort of perch.” I tried to sit on the armrest of his chair, but I was too short to get up there and keep my feet on the floor (damn you, giant overstuffed chairs), so I sort of crouched and hovered over his scrawny legs, refusing to actually sit down on his cootie-infested pants. I about puked when I saw he was sporting wood. “Oh God! Take the picture—quickly!” I yelled.

  In the photo, my brother is laughing like a hyena, and I look like I just got my ass pinched by a mall Santa with a boner.

  Because I did.

  I didn’t do anything about it, though. I was all of eighteen years old and was not the spitfire I am today. Instead, I gritted my teeth, paid for my picture (the hell I was going to go back for a retake), and decided my mother would never get another Santa picture from me again.

  If this had happened today, I would own that mall Santa’s meth-lab car and his trailer home.

  The sad irony is now that I am older and bitchier and wouldn’t stand for that crap, there will never be another time that a gross mall Santa will even want to grab my ass. And let’s face it, I’m so old now that if he did, I’d probably just be flattered.

  When December 2001 rolled around, the Hubs and I had been dating for several years. We had weathered our first non-date at the exotic TGIFriday’s, and we’d stuck together even though I had worn overalls and he’d warned me before our dinner that if I was boring he’d leave because there was a new episode of Homicide on that night.

  So while we’d dated for years, our parents had never met. They lived in different cities and had never had the opportunity (or desire) to get together until they found out they would someday share grandchildren. Then in December 2001 the opportunity for a meeting presented itself. I was working at the latest in my long string of life-sucking jobs in Manhattan and was told that because I’d taken time off for Christmas the year before, I would not be able to have any time off that year and would be expected back in the office on December 26. There was no way I could get home to my parents’ house in Kansas for the holiday and be back in New York in time to punch the clock at 9:00 A.M.

  I was pretty upset. I had always gone home for Christmas while the Hubs stayed in New York and celebrated the holiday with his family. Now I would be in New York alone for Christmas. Yeah, yeah, the Hubs would be around, but he didn’t do Christmas like I was used to.

  As much as I make fun of my mother and her shenanigans, her house feels like Christmas. The Hubs’ family never decorates or even puts up a tree! No tree? WTF? That doesn’t feel like Christmas at all. My mom and dad always gave me kick-ass gifts (even if I demanded them or they were half finished). The Hubs’ family gives each other socks and underwear for gifts—one year the Hubs gave his mother oatmeal! Those aren’t gifts; they’re necessities. I would cry if I received socks as my Christmas gift. (Of course, this was before I had children; now I’d be thrilled to get a pair of socks, since the kids get every fucking thing.) No, the Hubs’ family was far too practical for me to celebrate with. I’d rather stay home alone than sit around and pretend to be excited watching them open underwear and oatmeal. “Jockey for Her! Ooh, that’s the good stuff. Niiiice.”

  C.B. was newly married to Ida and was spending Christmas with her family that year. My parents were going to be alone. I was going to be alone. Of course, my mother couldn’t have that. It didn’t matter that I was twenty-eight years old—she didn’t want me to spend Christmas solo (plus my mother is crazy about New York City at Christmastime, so for her it was a win-win). So the next thing I knew, she and my dad announced they were coming to New York C
ity for Christmas.

  In those days I was living in a two-bedroom apartment with limited storage in Forest Hills, Queens. Because of my minimal closet space and the fact that I had always gone home to Kansas City for Christmas, I didn’t have any Christmas decorations. I knew my mom would be depressed to begin with because she’d be spending her favorite holiday in my dingy apartment, but if I didn’t buy a Christmas tree, she might actually threaten to end her life.

  So I turned into an overachieving daughter—but still only half-assed (I can only do so much). I found out many years earlier that I am allergic to evergreen trees. I can’t stop coughing, snotting, and sneezing when I’m around those things. My parents had a real Christmas tree for many years and just assumed I was always sick at Christmastime. No one thought, Gee, there’s a pattern here. Maybe we should have Jenni tested for allergies. Nope. It wasn’t until I was older and my mom decided that fake trees were prettier than real trees (and didn’t add more time to her daily vacuuming regimen) that we figured out I was allergic. The year my mom came home with a plastic tree, it was the first Christmas when I could breathe through my nose and see out of fully opened eyes. (Yeah, my eyes would swell shut, and still no one thought that was at all strange. Way to pay attention, parents.) Because of this, the Hubs and I slogged out to Long Island to pick up a tree and some decorations at Target—and a bin to keep it all in (that was the start of my own Christmas-decoration bin collection). I have no idea what I spent, but I’m sure it was several hundred bucks. The good news is we still have that tree, those ornaments, and that bin, so it was a solid investment.

  We put up the tree and planned the meeting of the parents.

  The Hubs’ parents wanted to spend Christmas Day with us, since I had to work the next day. I thought they would invite us over to their house for a turkey lunch and then we’d play board games all afternoon in front of a toasty fire. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, they invited us out to a Chinese restaurant in Flushing, a predominantly Asian section of Queens.