It was indeed a holy night.
Then, unfortunately, my reverie was cut all too appallingly short when the “cop” stepped forward to inform her that it was only my purse that had become acquainted with several car tires, not the girl whose purse it was. He had merely wanted to return it.
“I was dead?” I asked my mother eagerly, trying hard to fight the urge to jump up and down in glee. “Oh my God. I can’t believe it. This is fantastic! Did you cry?”
“Well, almost,” my mother confessed. “But then again, there was the relief of getting a second use out of your prom dress.”
Having me spend all of my eternity in black-and-hot-pink polyester taffeta would have been a grand revenge on my mother’s part, and there was no doubt in my mind that she would have done it, too, although that skirt, complete with hoop, was so big the coffin would have had to be shrink-wrapped to keep it closed. No mind, I’m sure she would have voluntarily sat on it graveside before it was time to lower me down, as her friends looked on and sadly shook their heads at a mother who treasured her child so much she sat on the casket to be closer to her daughter, even if she was a miserable drug addict who ran around maniacally in a parking lot until she got bounced by a car, all because she was hopped up on dope.
“You didn’t cry?” I asked again. “Are you sure?”
“Cry? When I found out you were alive, I wanted to kill you myself!” my mother said as she thrust my purse into my chest. “Well, that’s it. You’ve ruined Christmas. When a cop shows up at your front door on Christmas Eve, that’s it. Your holiday is shot.”
“Wait,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m confused. Did I ruin it by dying . . . or did I ruin it by living? Or maybe . . . I was just resurrected. Like you-know-who.”
“That is not the point,” my mother insisted. “And you just made God sad by even thinking that you were just like His only begotten son. A stranger saw me get all worked up because your purse got hit by a car. Not a person. Just an accessory. Look at that purse. I bet you got it at a thrift shop.”
“I did,” I said proudly. “It was a dollar. And by the way, it wasn’t a cop, it was a guy in a windbreaker and a hat who took ten dollars out of my purse! Look. My wallet is empty. He stole my money!”
“Well, I am so glad I almost had a heart attack over a purse so cheap you couldn’t buy it in Kmart!” my mother said. “I guess he deserved something for driving all the way over here. And you still ruined Christmas!”
I didn’t care. It was the Best Christmas I Ever Had, even if my purse did bear the brunt of the tragedy by being pummeled by a Honda Civic and then mugged by the hero. My mom thought I was totally, truly dead for a few seconds, and that in itself was a gift so precious it couldn’t be taken back. It was my favorite Christmas ever, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat if given the chance.
“Don’t be so mad, Mom,” I added, trying to console her. “I could always die next year.”
Now, over a decade later, standing in front of her fiber-optic Rainbow Brite tree, my mother was giving me the same look she had the night I rose from the dead.
“I love this tree and I have paid my price as a mother for every Christmas that you have been alive,” she declared. “And dead. I am done with Crap Trees. I wanted a Nice Tree, so I bought one. I have earned it. And I don’t want to hear another thing about it.”
“Mom, don’t you understand?” I said in one last sneaky, underhanded attempt to get my way. “When you hang our weevil-eaten ornaments on the tree, that’s how we know you love us!”
“Oh,” my mother said without skipping a beat, “I guess four years of orthodonture to rein in your Hee Haw teeth wasn’t enough, huh? You thought you were being sneaky by lying on your headgear chart when I was writing out those checks, but who paid the price after all? All of that money and all you got was Buck Owens’s mouth. That’s right; you make fun of my tree, I’ll make fun of your overbite.”
If that was how my mother responded when the word love was introduced into a situation, I was more than happy to bow out now before she saw fit to hurl me into her fancy new nuclear reactor of a Christmas tree and melt the skin on one whole side of my body.
On Christmas Eve several weeks later, we gathered in front of the fiber-optic tree and passed out presents.
“That is some tree,” my sister noted, squinting while the needles slow-burned from an achingly glaring yellow into a forest-fire red, as did the sheen on our faces.
“At least someone appreciates it,” my mother said as she tore into a giant QVC box. “If I had waited five more seconds, I wouldn’t have gotten it. Everyone wanted this tree.”
“Well, it’s no wonder. It’s a sauna and a tanning bed, with branches for complete coverage. Did it come with welding goggles so that you could actually look at it without burning your retinas?” my sister laughed as she opened a wax candle in the shape of a mini pound cake from my mother. “That thing is more damaging than a partial eclipse.”
“Look at you open those presents, Nicholas!” my mother said in a desperate and cheap attempt to divert attention from her emergency flare of a tree. “The wrapping paper is just falling off your gifts! You look so excited!”
“I’m sweaty,” my nephew said as he wiped a line of perspiration from his forehead. “Your tree is hot, Grandma. My presents are getting soggy from my head.”
“Come over here, we’ll put some sunblock on you,” my sister said as she ripped open wrapping paper to expose a wax cinnamon bun.
“I don’t want to be an alarmist,” I mentioned. “But if we’re going to stay in this room, I think we’d better move the presents away from the tree. Having paper, cardboard, and batteries near that thing is simply inviting both danger and the fire department.”
“LEAVE THE TREE ALONE!” my mother roared as she stopped opening her gift. “Why do you all want to ruin my Christmas? Isn’t one ruined Christmas enough for a lifetime? All I wanted is a Nice Tree. I wanted to finally have a Nice Tree. What is wrong with that?”
“Nothing is wrong with it,” my sister agreed. “You can have a Nice Tree. I happen to have a Magnificent Tree. I have nothing but Lenox ornaments on it that I got at the outlet mall, and clear lights. Yes, that’s right. I said clear lights. I’ve always known I was a clear-lights person and I’m tired of living a brightly colored lie.”
My mother gasped. “What about the kids?” she cried. “What about all of the ornaments they made you this year? Nicholas made reindeer out of clay, and David molded his hand in plaster! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“You know,” my sister replied. “I love my kids, but Nicholas is in the first grade. He brought home eight primitive clay formations that look like doody with legs. David has been sneaking into the living room and watching Will Ferrell movies after we go to bed, and in his plaster mold, he’s clearly flipping the bird. Putting those things on my tree with a bunch of Cheerios ornaments and paper chains is simply not an option. My Magnificent Tree is magnificent for a reason.”
“See?” my mother said as she shook her finger at me. “What did I say? Lisa agrees with me!”
“So I bought the kids their own tree,” my sister finished. “And it’s in the family room and it has all of their decorations on it. How could I not have our family tree? How else would they know that I love them and their legged reindeer poops and middle fingers? That’s our family on that tree and in those ornaments; there’s no way I’m going to leave them in boxes until they disintegrate.”
My mother, perfectly stymied, sat there with nothing to say. After several seconds, when it was clear that even though she was out of the five-foot radius of the tree’s hazard zone and that her face was still a little too shiny, she finally relented.
“Fine,” she said as all of our faces turned from green to blue to purple. “Fine. Next year, I’ll bring your ornaments back out, all right? But I’m not putting them on this tree, they would just be kindling, and Christmas trees should only catch fire if you live in a trail
er. Anybody care if I unplug it? It’s starting to make me nauseous.”
My sister and I just smiled at each other as my mother, with a dish towel over her arm to prevent a major skin graft, pulled the plug out of the wall and the room turned dark, then dropped by 20 degrees.
There’s a Gun Somewhere Under the Christmas Tree
Right according to plan, the moment my poor future mother-in-law opened her front door, she looked at me as if she had just seen me slide down a brass pole and shake my bare hips to a Nazareth song as a fat biker rewarded me by sticking a buck in my thong.
It was absolutely horrible.
And I suppose she had every right. There I was with my bleached and pink and purple hair; what else did I expect? Certainly, I’m sure, she expressed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t just been on the news for diddling the president or a congressman, so things could have been worse, but still. I was far from Julia Roberts, even as a hooker in Pretty Woman.
When the ghastly moment passed, my boyfriend’s mother bravely put on her best smile and invited me in.
After all, it was Christmas Day.
Frankly, I just wanted to find the bathroom and stay there, and I probably would have, had my in-laws-to-be not thought that my absence was due to snorting a pound of cocaine rather than bone-chilling fear.
“I don’t understand your friend’s hair,” I learned later that my boyfriend’s sister said. “Why is it so many colors? And so unbrushed? I’ve only seen homeless people with that kind of hair.”
“I used to have purple hair,” my boyfriend reminded her. “And the knotty parts are just a couple of dreads; they’re supposed to be there.”
“Why is she wearing cowboy boots? Is she in the rodeo?” the other sister inquired.
“People wear combat boots who aren’t in the army,” my boyfriend reminded them.
“And this is the girl, Gloria, that you’ve been seeing?” they asked.
“No, this is the girl, Laurie, that I’m going to marry,” he reminded them.
“Oh,” they all said.
I really tried to put on a good show, to smile, to act pleasant, chew with my mouth closed, all of that stuff. I even retired the red lipstick for one day and switched to the Saucy Mauve that I had left over from my duty as my sister’s bridesmaid.
In a kind maneuver to make me feel like I was part of the family, my future mother-in-law took me upstairs and asked if I’d help her wrap some last-minute gifts, a duty I couldn’t have been more grateful for. It would permit me a few minutes out of the spotlight, I thought as I wrapped and followed her instructions for which tags went on which presents, enough time for them to get used to me, and now maybe the children wouldn’t cry or ask if I was a witch when they saw me come back down the stairs.
As I returned with the wrapped gifts, my boyfriend met me on the landing.
“This is horrible, they hate me,” I told him as I handed over some of the presents. “I think I’d rather have my next Pap smear broadcast over satellite TV or have my credit report published in the paper or just about anything than go back in there.”
“It’s fine, it’s really fine,” he said. “They seemed to like you a whole lot more when I told them you weren’t pregnant.”
“Oh, good, good,” I said, nodding my head. “They think I’m Courtney Love, don’t they?”
“Listen, you’re wearing a bra, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Because somebody said something about maybe seeing a boob . . .”
“Yes!” I whispered back. “Of course I’m wearing a bra! You know we have to wear bras at the magazine because if we don’t, the police surveillance team might mistake us for one of the porno people making movies in the office downstairs from us!”
“Just checking,” he said. “Just checking. Keep your arms crossed, just in case. Okay, are you ready to open presents?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “But I wasn’t ready to be the boob-flashing rodeo witch that I apparently am, so let’s just go.”
The present-opening began, and with the paper tearing and the kids squealing, for a moment, everything seemed okay as I sat back with crossed arms and watched.
“Wow, thanks, Mom,” my boyfriend said as he held up his gift. “A Snow White video!”
“Thanks, Mom!” his sister said excitedly, holding up a pair of pearl earrings. “They’re beautiful!”
“Aren’t . . . those the earrings I asked for?” his other sister stuttered.
“I didn’t have this on my list, but I guess we could use it,” her husband said as he poked at what looked like a nursing bra. “I know I’ve gained a couple of pounds, but do I really need it? Tell me honestly.”
“If anyone unwraps a gun, I’m calling first dibs,” my boyfriend’s brother asserted.
Everyone looked very confused except for my future mother-in-law and me. I already knew what had happened, and against all odds, no matter how impossible it seemed, I had completely destroyed the family’s holiday even further than I had when they thought I was a pregnant, homeless stripper with knotted hair.
In my haste, in my stress, in my panic, I had apparently stuck the wrong tags on the wrong gifts, damaging the gift exchange, and as a result, a three-year-old was handling a Leatherman tool with about eight different knives on it, two sisters were about to rumble under the Christmas tree, a gun was possibly in our midst, and it was suspected that a coveted Diaper Genie was hiding somewhere under a tag with the phantom Gloria’s name on it.
“I’m so sorry,” I professed over and over again. “I am so sorry. I don’t know how this happened. I am really, really sorry.”
It was then that my boyfriend’s nephew, a frisky, one-year-old toddler, waddled up to me and immediately went straight to second base, making a far quicker move than his uncle ever did. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I just sat there, trying to smile as he grappled at my right boob and trying to pretend I didn’t have a baby feeling me up.
“Oh, he must be hungry,” his mother said as she laughed and pulled him off me.
“Wow,” I said lightly. “I’ve never been mistaken for a snack bar before.”
“Here,” my boyfriend’s brother-in-law said as he laughed and tossed me his nursing bra. “I think this is probably for you.”
They all laughed, and I laughed, too. When I looked at my boyfriend’s mother, I saw that she was chuckling as well, and when she finally looked at me, she winked.
Have Yourself a Kmart Little Christmas
Believe me, standing in line at 10:30 P.M. on Christmas Eve in a Super Kmart was not exactly how I planned to spend my holiday, but there I was, thinking that the only place I could be more tortured would be church with the rest of my family as my mother introduced me to her entire congregation as “This is the daughter I told you about who compared her fake death to the crucifixion of Jesus, which we all know after watching The Passion of the Christ was not funny. She’s going to hell.”
The Kmart by my Nana’s house literally began to decompose after it had sat on a corner for twenty years, and then completely liquefied one night during a rainstorm. It was shoveled away and rebuilt into a Super Kmart, as if the landscape of a regular Kmart wasn’t magnificent enough. It had to be supersized, despite the fact that the corporation was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy. There had to be more room made for bath towels you could see through and the universe’s biggest selection of flammable clothing. The world simply demanded it. Frankly, I thought the message from God was loud and clear when the first Kmart melted, but apparently, the need to buy plywood furniture in the same place you pick up some bruised apples was deeply underestimated on my part.
Life in our town was about to see a jump in the quality of living now that you could buy a terrycloth romper for $5.99, take two steps and enjoy life a little more by munching down a chopped, pressed, and artificially colored ham sandwich that was only four for a dollar. Then, if luck was riding shotgun in your cart and the blue light was still a-flashin’, you could buy a stack of
Styrofoam plates with nothing but nickels, pennies, and some lint from your pockets.
Yeah, I’m being snotty, but anyone who spent their childhood dressed in Kmart Klothes knows exactly what I’m talking about, and speaking from that experience, I need to tell Kmart something (aside from “You better thank your lucky polyester asses that I never burst into flame while standing within a twelve-inch radius of a lethal toaster, waiting for a Pop-Tart)”: If you want people to shop at your store, you don’t need to make it bigger, you just need to STOP SELLING CRAP. Just stop. Resist the urge. I know it’s hard. Terrycloth is great for wiping up a spilled drink but has no place on the body, cardboard dressers should only be purchased for kindling, and cubic-zirconium heart pendants should have been declared illegal years ago. I know you have the Martha Stewart name behind you, but come on, even Cher could only carry Sonny for so long, and this Cher’s bunked in the Big House. And frankly, as long as we’re following an honest theme here, even her stuff is crap. Ever sleep on a polyester sheet? You’ll lose more weight in one hour wrapped in that than you will after five years in a Vietnamese prison.
It’s all crap. Start selling underwear made from cotton and you can put that silly blue light away; stop building Kmarts that take up a whole street and melt with one good sprinkle. So, in the name of my snottiness, I made a solemn vow to myself that I would never set foot inside of it, no matter what the circumstances. I especially cemented my vow when I heard that the Super Kmart was open the week of Christmas every day until midnight, including Christmas Eve. I decided right then and there that if they cared so little about their employees as to make them work late into Christmas Eve, then they would never get a dime of my money. Super Kmart, in my opinion, Super Sucked.
An Idiot Girl's Christmas Page 3
