Merry f*cking Christmas

 

It’s that time of year again. That time of year when my mother begins to wind herself up into a holidays induced frenzy. It’s like she she’s smoking more than turkey. Maybe mistletoe joints while downing cup after cup of holly tea with a candy cane shoved up her ass.

Anyone who knows me more than a little knows that my mother and I do not get along. She is difficult and childlike, a barely functioning adult with a serious personality disorder. I know to some people it might sound cruel to talk this way about someone who’s mentally ill, but you know what else is cruel? Having two kids when you’re mentally ill and then expecting them to take care of you.

No matter how much we’re not getting along, my mother always makes sure that we’ve “made up” before the holidays, because she can’t stand the thought of not “celebrating” with family, and god forbid she doesn’t score any loot. I always go along with it, forcing my husband and daughter to participate, because I guess in some dark corner of my brain that I haven’t managed to completely wall off, I still feel sorry for her.

She started pestering me with phone calls about two weeks ago, because she is already planning for Christmas. That means that she started thinking about Christmas before Halloween was over.

“I want to do something really wild for Christmas dinner this year,” she said. “I’m tired of the traditional meals. So start thinking about what we might have.”

This is annoying to me because I seriously don’t give a shit. All I want to do is get in and get out, hopefully with my sanity in tact. But each year my mother builds Christmas up into this impossible ideal that no one can live up to, and every year she tries to force the rest of us into sharing in her mountainous delusion. No one can possibly be cheery enough. The presents can’t be plentiful or large enough. The food is never quite as satisfying as she thinks it should be, and each year she lays out a spread that could feed a large extended family, even though it’s just the five of us. No one is ever as grateful or surprised as they should be, no matter how emphatic his or her appreciation. In order for her to be satisfied, our smiles must split our very faces. We must practically soil ourselves with excitement. She is over 70 now, but she views the holiday through the eyes of a four year old, and not in a good way. It is exhausting.

My husband, daughter, brother and I spend Christmas Eve as opposed to Christmas proper with Mother, because she refuses to be in the same room with my dad, even though they’ve been divorced since 1980. So several years ago she surrendered Christmas day and has completely taken over Christmas Eve as her own, insisting that we have it at her house, where she can have total control over the decorations and the food. Her decorations, while beautiful and Martha Stewart-like, completely engulf her small house, looking like the Hobby Lobby vomited up several aisles in her living room. I’m fine with celebrating at her house, though, because that means we can leave when we want.

I told a close friend of mine that my mother was insisting that I come up with an idea for Christmas dinner. She’s a witty, sarcastic woman, much like me.

“You should tell her you want fondue,” she said, and we shared a good laugh.

It was so funny to me that when my mom called today to ask if I’d been thinking about Christmas dinner I said, “What about fondue?”

“Oh,” she said, clearly surprised. I could hear the cogs clicking in her head. She was intrigued. “Have you had that recently at a friend’s house?”

“No,” I said, instantly realizing my blunder.

“Well, I used to have fondue pots ...” she said, which is true. They were olive green and she bought them in the 1970s, the last time that fondue was hip.

“It’s fine,” I said. “We don’t have to have fondue. Don’t go out and buy fondue pots. Let’s just have pizza or something.” Because my mother has no money. She never does. But no matter how much my husband and I try to insist that she save her money and not buy us gifts, she refuses to listen. And now, I thought, she’s going to go out and buy a bunch of goddamned fondue pots that she can’t afford.

Shit.

She said that maybe we would just have pizza, but I kinda doubt it. I have a feeling that come Christmas Eve, there will be a little forest of fondue pots dotting her dining room table, simmering over sterno cans, glistening with various cheeses, broths and chocolates, because though my mother is irritating, she is a damned good cook.

And who knows. Maybe this year, the fondue will be so fucking exciting Christmas will finally live up to her expectations.