Every Christmas, my mother hosts many, many, many friends and family members at our apartment for a festive meal. How charming! How cheery! How spry the great uncles and aunts seem! Who can say no to so many Amazon gift cards? You can buy anything there! You know, I’d really like to invite you all! Yes, I’m talking to you! But there’s simply not enough horseradish sauce to go around. So, pull up your chair, snuggle up to your overheated laptop, pour yourself a very full glass of wine (shucks, just drink from the bottle) and join the revelry. Let the merriment begin!
Mom [with rosemary sprigs sticking out of her hair, and a slab of beef fat in either hand]: You’re going to have to sit at the kids’ table. Don’t argue with me. I’m about the throw someone in the oven.
Me: But, Mom, I’m not a kid.
Mom: You’re wearing onesie pajamas, eating Twix cereal out of the box, and watching Gilmore Girls on abc Family. And someone has to sit at the kids’ table, it’s not like there are any kids coming.
Me: Why do we call it the kids’ table, then? That doesn’t make any sense.
Mom: Are you arguing with me about semantics on Christmas? On Christmas of all of the days of the year? Do you want to go all sign-signifier on me now? I will cook you in the oven. Oh my God, I left the oven on overnight. NOBODY LIGHT A MATCH.
Stepfather [looking singed]: Why are all the tablecloths pink?
Mom: If you both don’t start peeling carrots [*spoiler alert] I’m going to go running through the playground next door screaming that Santa doesn’t exist.
Stepfather: If Santa doesn’t exist, who’s that old man in the living room drinking all the scotch?
****
Grandma: My little angel!!!!
Caterer: Can I offer you a salmon cream puff?
Grandma: Do you know what my darling angel got on her essay on Lincoln’s evolving notions of providence? Do you?
Caterer: Um, no.
Me: Did anyone else hear the doorbell?
Grandma: B+! A B+ at Yale University and she worked so hard on it, we’re all so proud.
Caterer: Congratulations? Me: I think I just heard Mom light someone on fire. Caterer: Oh my God, is that Sally, my wife of twelve years and partner in the catering business that just went running down the hall on fire? Sally! Stop, drop, and roll!
****
Me: Hi, Dan, it’s me, Emma, I know it’s, like, Christmas, but I think you’re Jewish. Not that that matters, I mean, obviously it doesn’t matter, like I just meant that I’m pretty much an atheist, or I guess more of an agnostic, but yeah… I’m hiding in my closet and I just thought, wow, it’s been like four years since I talked to Dan, and you know, we were so happy together once, and, um, I hope you got my Christmas e-card. Did you see I elfed ourselves? You look really nice in a pointy cap. I’ve always thought that. Remember the time? With the hats… HAHAHAHAHAHA. Sorry this message is kind of rambling. I think I’m a little drunk. Which is weird because it’s 5:30. Yeah, so. Yeah, no, it’s great to talk to… your message machine or whatever. What do we call it when it’s just in your cell phone. When it’s not, like, a freestanding machine? Is there a name for it? Your micro-memory-chip? I should have taken more useful classes at college. I think I might have just downloaded High School Musical 3 on iTunes. Except I think I may have done it twice. Hmm… Yeah, ok. Hope all is well! Hope you’re… thriving. Or whatever… [pause, door to closet is wrenched open]. No this isn’t the bathroom… BEEP.
****
[At the Kids’ Table]
Cousin: So that’s how I found out he… was a she.
[Stunned silence]
Me: The kids’ table rules.
Cousin: So where are you working next year? Got any hot leads?
Me: I think I just threw up a little in my napkin.
****
Outbox Msg 24
To: Dan Cuteface
8:42 p.m.
Misng uuu. 364 dayz til xmas.