Holidays and the Practicality of Alcoholism

We’re getting into the time of year that drives me crazy - holiday shopping. I like to consider myself a thoughtful person who takes the time and effort to find just the right gift to match someone’s spirit and soul, but really, I know the truth lies more in the fact that I’m a bastion of anxiety with people pleasing issues who hates to disappoint; and somehow I always expect that disappoint is just what I will do. I don’t know exactly what my fear is around gift giving. From my anxiety, you’d think that someone is going to open up a present, stare back at me and say, “purple socks . . . you got me purple socks? What the fuck were you thinking, you crazy freak who doesn’t know me at all!!"

So I’ve been doing my share of holiday shopping and am trying to mentally prepare for the trip home to visit the family for Christmas. Christmas morning is the one day of the year that my parents expect me to be there. It’s our one real family holiday ritual, so comfortable and engrained in my parents, I think it would happen with no one else there at all. And with each Christmas, visitors are getting fewer. For years they grew. My sister got married and added her husband to the mix, then one by one, my two nieces arrived. We would alternate visiting their family with them trekking to South Carolina. In 2001, I brought my partner Meg home for the first time, as well as our pug, Buddha. Stevie, the chow mix, was not allowed at the time because then my sister would think it was okay to bring the Goldens...who were "just too big". I'm still not sure too big for what, or how that extra poundage would shake up the entire household, but alas...one chooses their battles; and battles, there were plenty.

Eventually my sister's family stopped coming down for Christmas, so it was my parents, Meg, myself, and an overstuffed pug. And it took a few years, but my parents finally became comfortable with sharing my relationship with Meg with the extended family. The first year began with my parents telling relatives that Meg was “Alice’s roommate whose family really celebrates Thanksgiving more than Christmas and that's why she's visiting with her this Christmas." This oh so subtle approach may have worked for awhile, but lost credibility by the 5th or 6th year. My mother describes my sexuality like something I can't help, "it's like being retarded. You were born that way", she tells me. It's also something “nice people don’t mention” like bathroom habits or the way one really feels about someone’s choice of holiday attire. (And in fact, I think the more atrocious a clothing item is, the heavier my mom’s southern drawl becomes and the more she feels the need to comment positively. For example, “Why, Mar-gah-ret, You haaave just got to let me know where you found that adorable lil’ penguin snowflake jumpsuit. Well, it’s just to die for.”)

With that said, I know my parents would look forward to Meg and I visiting each year. My father would insist we sit at the dinner table on Christmas Eve with Holiday tunes blaring while taking shots of after dinner liqueurs from the Waterford cordials. The night would end with Dad slurring carols and all of us stumbling to bed warm, tipsy (and with a slight tummyache). My mom prepared too. She hoarded catalogs for months to pick out the best presents. Usually this “picking out of the presents” took place over a glass, bottle . . . or maybe case of wine, late night, with the 24 hour customer service numbers dog-eared and ready to call. I hope the nice late night customer service reps at L.L. Bean get shift differential, because I know with my mother, they deserve every fucking penny.

And Christmas morning is a huge preparation and production. By the time we’ve arranged the furniture for the optimal present opening experience, gathered the gifts to a centrally located distribution area, calculated the approximate amount of trash bags needed for holiday debris, we’re already on our third Bloody Mary. The Bloody Marys were upgraded from mimosas because they were “more festive with the red and green”, Mom said. But let's be honest......can we say higher alcohol content?

I must admit the higher alcohol content helps…because it at times keeps one calm when noticing the little things like the fact there are a couple of presents that my mom has given me several years in row. I did try to address this once. I told mom that I liked the snake light but that she gave me one last year. Without skipping a beat, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, "well, you liked it then." And I couldn't really respond to that logic, so I just said, "thanks".

So I now have two snake lights, three pair of fingerless gloves that with the magic of velcro transform into mittens, three different styles of microwave pasta cookers “because it just takes SOOO long on the stove”, and two safes which are cleverly disguised as library books “to hide my good jewelry.” Now come on...do I seem like the type of girl who has good jewelry?

It’s okay though, the book safes are the perfect size for sex toys. Kidding.....Do I seem like the kind of girl who has sex toys? Ummm.....Don’t answer that. Over time I've just learned to be grateful for my gifts; and more grateful for eBay.

But with being newly single, this will be the first year in a decade I'm going home alone and I expect it to be difficult. My mother told me she has picked out presents for Meg, but realizes that she can't buy them for her. To this, I offer to give her Meg's address and tell her I am sure with moving into a new house, she would be very appreciative of the gifts and thoughtfulness. Despite my sarcasm, and the sadness in the reality of a broken relationship, I attempt to focus on the positive; the small victory in the idea that a woman who a decade ago worried about her granddaughter's lesbian teacher molesting her, grew open enough to love my partner enough to enjoy her, expect her, and truly miss her. So even though the sentiments were packaged and delivered as a guilt trip, the sentiments were still delivered.

Despite trying to focus on the little positives, it is still hard. My mother has made comments on how lonely it will be with "just me" visiting on Christmas. I can only echo the sentiment that yes - abso-fucking-lutely it will be lonely with just me. In fact, some days I'm lonely every time I turn around; with every breath I take; with every beat of my heart; and every other cliche song lyric that is weaseling its way into my brain as I type - but I'm slowly learning to stand up in the solitude and be thankful for the constants: good friends, a company for which I'm proud to work, and a dog that loves me to the point of neurotica. I'm trying to appreciate the wins during a year that feels pregnant with loss. So while I'm bracing myself for the potential dysfunction, I'm kind of pining in some small way for my father's slurred verse of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", unwrapping a microwave pasta cooker, and the clink of ice in a Christmas morning Bloody Mary. No, it's not perfect, but it's what I have. It's what I know. It's the small hint of tradition, familiarity, some thread to remind me that I'm still here, still growing, and that I can survive this all on my own.