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

by Jen Mann

  “I didn’t even notice it. What are you?”

  “I’m a socket. Art’s the plug. Do you get it?”

  “Yup. I get it.”

  So did Gomer. He looked around and saw Art yukking it up in the corner with some of the other miserable dads. I watched his eyes follow the thick cord over Art’s shoulder and down to his man zone. Gomer looked at Marge and her strategically placed openings.

  “Mom,” Gomer said, “his plug fits in her socket?”

  “It’s hilarious,” Marge said.

  “Why is that funny?” Gomer asked.

  “Um…” I said, stalling. I knew the moms of the twelve-year-old boys thought this was a tough conversation, but it wasn’t very easy with an eight-year-old, either.

  “Oh!” Gomer said. “I get it. The plug is where his penis goes and the socket is near her vagina. Is that why it’s funny?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I went with, “Guess so, Gomer.”

  I looked to Marge for help, but she just looked disgusted.

  “Why did they make that their costume, Mom?” Gomer asked.

  “That’s a good question, Gomer. We should probably talk about it at home.” I glared at Marge. “Go eat your pizza.”

  Marge watched him walk away and then whispered, “I can’t believe that your child knows the words penis and vagina.”

  “Of course he does. He’s eight. He can’t call it a pee-pee or a dingleberry anymore.”

  “Fine. But he also knows about s-e-x?” She spelled the word. I couldn’t believe that a woman standing there wearing a sexually provocative costume would spell the word sex like my grandmother would in church.

  “Yes, he knows the basics, and now, thanks to your costume, he has a visual aid as well.”

  “What other things do you tell him? There’s no reason for them to know anything. I would never teach my kids that kind of stuff when they’re so young. Only perverts tell little kids about sex. What is wrong with you?”

  She scurried away from me as if my bad parenting choices were the problem. She grabbed Art’s (muscular) arm and whispered furiously into his ear while gesturing wildly at me. We made eye contact. He looked me up and down, taking in every inch of my sad dog costume. I could only guess what Marge had told him.

  Gomer came up to me. “I know why they did it, Mom.”

  “What, Gomer?”

  “The costume. It’s a costume about sex. They can have sex in their costume. That’s why it’s funny.” Gomer smiled, proud of himself. “You and Dad never dress up. Maybe you guys can do that next year.”

  I grabbed a piece of pizza (fuck my skin) and shoved it in my mouth so I wouldn’t have to answer.

  Ever since Gomer was a baby, we’ve hosted Thanksgiving at our house. I’m not one to throw big parties (unless it’s so I can drum up some business, as previously noted); I just figured it was easier to do it at my home. If everyone came to me, I didn’t have to haul a Pack ’n Play, a bouncy seat, a Baby Bjorn, diapers, wipes, a change of clothes (for the baby and for me), a breast pump, bottles, a bottle warmer, and sixty other things that I carted around when I had a baby but can no longer remember because having babies kills brain cells.

  I could see my extended family, eat some pie, and put my baby down for a nap all at the same time. That first year everyone felt bad for me, with all the work a newborn entails, so they brought all the food. I didn’t argue with them, and that idea sort of stuck, so now I only have to clean my house and set tables for twenty to twenty-five people (we never know who might show up) and heat up some dinner rolls. The rest is taken care of by the family.

  The Hubs does not get involved in the cooking or the baking required to put everyone into a food coma. Instead he busies himself with the entertainment side of things—namely, making sure that our televisions are optimized for the best viewing experience possible for parades, football games, and Lifetime and Disney movies.

  We have enough places in our house for like-minded groups to spread out and watch what they want, but not all the TVs are created equal. In the past, the Hubs camped out in his movie room in the basement, claiming the best TV, but over the years, the kids have taken over his spot. He wasn’t very happy when his favorite TV was playing Mary Poppins on a continuous loop. “This year we need new televisions before Thanksgiving,” he announced.

  “Why do we need new TVs?” I asked.

  “The one in our bedroom and the one in the family room both need to go.”

  “Those two work just fine and we paid over a thousand dollars for each of them!”

  “Yes, they turn on and off, the channels change, and the volume can go up and down, but they still aren’t good. They’re twelve years old and they’re basically obsolete.”

  “Obsolete? How can they be obsolete? I don’t even understand how that can be. We paid a fortune for them.”

  “They’re enormous tube TVs. We can’t watch anything in high-def, and they can’t hook up to Netflix. They’re ancient. They’ve got to go.”

  The one in the bedroom was sitting in an armoire that was starting to sag and buckle under the weight of the huge television. I had to admit it would be nice to not have the furniture break. But I still wasn’t convinced.

  “I don’t know. It seems so wasteful. They’re both in good shape.”

  “No. they both have to go. Your uncle Ralph hates watching the football game in the family room on that television, and if we got a better TV in our bedroom, we could send the kids there to watch their crap, and that would free up the projector in the theater for whatever inappropriate non–kid-friendly movie I want to watch, and you ladies would have a nice TV in the kitchen for Lifetime or whatever you watch. Jen, trust me, they’re both dinosaurs and they need to be replaced. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” the Hubs assured me.

  Over the next few days he researched new televisions. He also researched disposing of the two obsolete ones. What we found was astounding. First of all, the television that was breaking my armoire weighed in at one hundred and fifty pounds and the monster in the family room was a whopping three hundred pounds. Holy crap! What were we going to do with these things? We originally thought we’d sell them on Craigslist, because even though the Hubs found them to be outdated, I was sure that someone would find these televisions to be quite a nice addition to their homes. I placed ads the week before Thanksgiving, assuming that they’d be gone in an hour. Did I mention I paid a thousand dollars apiece for these things? I wrote what I thought was a compelling ad and only asked for twenty-five dollars and for the new owner to haul it away. The hell I was going to lug over a hundred pounds for a measly twenty-five dollars!

  I posted my ad and waited patiently for my phone to ring. After twenty-four hours without a single call, I lowered my price to twenty dollars. Thanksgiving day was getting closer and I needed to get rid of these televisions. The Hubs had already ordered new TVs and they were due to be delivered any day now.

  After three days without a nibble on my televisions, we started to look into other options. “We could donate them,” I suggested.

  “We can only donate the little one,” the Hubs said. He meant the hundred-and-fifty-pound one in our bedroom. “The other one is too big and the donation center won’t take it.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “I already called them.”

  “What will we do with the big one?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m working on it.”

  “I don’t want it to end up in a landfill,” I reminded him.

  “Don’t worry. It won’t. We can’t dump it in the landfill. It’s illegal. We have to have the television recycled.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe we should get the recycling company to come and get it, then.”

  “I don’t want to do that yet,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because they charge you a hundred and fifty dollars to take it, and I don’t think I should pay to recycle it. I’m doing th
e right thing here by not throwing it away; I shouldn’t have to pay someone to recycle it.”

  “Can we offer it for free on Craigslist?”

  “I’ve been trying. I’ve had it listed for free for weeks and not one call.”

  “For weeks? We just decided a few days ago to do this,” I said.

  “I hoped to have it all taken care of before we even talked about it. I didn’t want to worry you. Unfortunately, we waited too long. These things are antiquated. No one wants them.”

  I dropped my Craigslist ad to free as well. I figured mine would get more attention than the one the Hubs placed. After all, I’m a “professional” writer. It’s kind of my thing. To emphasize exactly how free these televisions were now, I capitalized the entire ad and yelled at everyone on Craigslist.

  The Hubs brought his laptop over to me. “Look at how many people are trying to get rid of the same televisions we are. It’s time. We need to donate them.”

  “Donate them? Where? You said only one can be donated.”

  “That’s true. Only this organization will take the little one.” He showed me a website on his laptop.

  I shook my head. “No way. I don’t like that organization and what they stand for. I don’t want to donate to them,” I said.

  “Why? What’s wrong with them?”

  “You know why I don’t like them. They’re one of those groups that think you can pray the gay away. I refuse to have their programs benefiting from my television.”

  The doorbell rang. It was the UPS man with the first new television.

  The Hubs carried the box effortlessly into our bedroom. “Bedroom TV is here,” he announced.

  “Well, I don’t know where you’re going to put it, because I won’t donate this one,” I said, crossing my arms and scowling.

  “Really? Now is when you’re going to get super political on me? You ate at Chick-fil-A last week and I saw the bags in the car from Hobby Lobby,” the Hubs said. “You just want to fight with me. Let me just show you what we’ve been missing.” He proceeded to unpack the box and hook up the new television’s bells and whistles. He viewed my YouTube channel and scrolled through a friend’s Instagram feed. He called up Orange Is the New Black on Netflix and made me a soft nest in our bed. “You go ahead and watch this for a little bit while I get you a drink.”

  It didn’t take me ten minutes to give up all my convictions. Damn you, Netflix! “Fine. We’ll donate the little one. In the end I probably won’t be funding anything they do, because it’s very clear that no one wants these piece-of-shit televisions.”

  “I love you,” the Hubs said. To the television.

  “What about the big one?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry. I have that under control, too,” he said. “Let’s just focus on this one first. We need to get it out of the cabinet and into the minivan.”

  “I think we should hire someone,” I said. “I can barely lift a fork to my mouth and you throw out your back every time you play Fruit Ninja on the Kinect. We’ll drop it.”

  “No, Jen! The whole reason we’re donating it is so that we don’t have to spend any money. Hiring movers will defeat what we’re doing here. You can do it. What do I always tell you? You’re strong like what?”

  “Strong like a bull,” I said sulkily.

  “That’s right, my little bull. Now do some stretches, because we’re going to get that bitch out of there.”

  It took us close to twenty minutes, but we manhandled that thing to the floor with me yelling “I don’t have it! I don’t have it!” the entire time. We were both slightly dazed and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. We looked at the television at our feet. “Okay,” the Hubs said. “Now we just need to carry it out to the van.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I panted. “There is no way I can make it that far. That thing is a beast. It’s heavy as shit and I don’t have the wingspan to wrap my arms around it for a good grip. Please, let’s call someone.”

  “I have a better idea,” the Hubs said, darting from the room.

  I looked at the massive television sitting in the middle of my bedroom and wondered if I could get used to it being there for the rest of my life, because there was no way in hell I was going to be able to muscle that thing to the garage. I suppose it would make a nice bench to sit on when I’m putting on my shoes, I thought.

  The Hubs returned with our dolly. “We can put it on here and wheel it out the back door,” he said. “The deck has the fewest stairs.”

  “That dolly is only rated to carry one hundred pounds. We’re going to break it,” I said.

  “Nah, they always say that, but it can handle double that. It will be fine. Lift your end.”

  I screamed in agony as I tried to lift my half of the television onto the dolly. The rubber wheels groaned in protest. “It’s too heavy!”

  “It will be fine. Get the door.” The Hubs tipped the dolly toward him and the television slid precariously. “Shit. A little help, Jen! You can’t just walk away like that.”

  “I’m getting the door!” I yelled at him. “I can’t hold the damn TV and get the door!”

  “Fine. Just hurry,” he panted, struggling under the weight of the dolly and the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound television.

  “How much did that dolly cost?” I asked as I opened the door.

  “I don’t know. A hundred bucks, maybe. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Because when you break it, you’ll need to add that to your budget of ‘money saved’ by not calling anyone to haul this piece of shit away.”

  “No, that’s not true. First of all, the dolly isn’t going to break, and even if it did, it wouldn’t count, because it’s four years old and we’ve gotten a lot of use out of it. You’ve got to count depreciation.”

  “I just count replacement value.”

  The door to the deck was open, but it didn’t look good to me. The television was clearly wider than the doorway. “Help me, Jen,” the Hubs said.

  “I don’t think it will fit through the door.”

  “It will,” he said, shoving the dolly closer to the door jamb. “We just have to force it. I’ll step out and pull. You stay in and push.”

  We assumed our positions and I crouched down to better push my end of the monstrosity through the doorway. “Push!” he yelled, grabbing the dolly and heaving it.

  I heard the distinct sound of wood cracking. “Push harder!” he screamed. The sound got louder. I could see the wood trim around my doorway starting to splinter and buckle.

  “Stop!” I shrieked. “The woodwork! You’re destroying the trim!”

  “It’s okay,” he replied. “I’ve got a guy who can fix that, no problem.”

  At that point I stepped back. “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

  He stood up and faced me over the three-foot-tall television. “What?”

  “This has become absolutely ridiculous. You refuse to spend a couple hundred dollars to have anyone remove this fucking television from our house, yet you are willing to sacrifice our dolly and our woodwork. Somehow those expenses don’t matter to you. This has become personal with you.”

  “I told you. It’s the principle. I shouldn’t get charged to do the right thing. I’m not hauling this thing to a field and pushing it out of the back end of my car—”

  “Assuming you could physically do that,” I interjected.

  “Right. I’m just saying, I could drop this thing in a ditch and let it rot and leach poison into the ground, but I’m not doing that. I’m trying to responsibly dispose of this thing, and every place I call wants hundreds of dollars from me. It’s not fair!”

  “But we didn’t even need to do this,” I reminded him. “You wanted new televisions.”

  “For your family! Thanksgiving is in a few days and your uncle will want—”

  “This is not about my uncle. This is about you. You’re pissed that the kids took over your man cave in the basement. I’ve always said we should do holidays the way we did when I
was a kid. We never watched movies or television on holidays.”

  The Hubs rolled his eyes. “No. You guys played epic games of Uno and Risk.”

  “It was fun.”

  “It sounds like a nightmare. Especially when you refuse to play Stacking Uno.”

  “Stacking Uno? Is that the one where you can just continue to put down Draw Four cards until some sad sack is left with twenty cards?”

  “Yeah, that one is fun!”

  “Don’t you remember? We tried that once. Adolpha cried the whole time and her hands were too small to hold all the cards you kept loading on her.”

  “She has two hands. I don’t see the problem. Anyway, I’m not playing Risk with your family. I want to spend my Thanksgiving watching an R-rated movie on a new TV while my kids watch Disney somewhere else. Now, push!”

  The woodwork groaned but held and the dolly banged onto the deck, dumping the television.

  “Son of a bitch!” the Hubs growled. “Come on, Jen. Put your back into it, we’re almost done.”

  We wrestled the television back onto the dolly and rolled it across the deck. “Watch out,” the Hubs said. “I can do the steps on my own. I’m just going to bounce it down.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked.

  The Hubs pushed the dolly off the edge of the top step. One rubber tire popped.

  “Sometimes I really hate you and how cheap you are,” I said.

  “I know, but we can’t stop now. Go around and open the garage door and the back end of the van. I can do this.” His face was turning red from the exertion and he looked like he might have a heart attack at any moment. But I really didn’t care. I was furious with him. If he had a heart attack, I’d tell the EMTs to take the television with them in the ambulance, because I wasn’t going.