Tuesday, November 19, 1996
THANKSGIVING:
Maturity makes prospect of annual dinner less palatable despite
fond memories
Thanksgiving is an amazing holiday where families and friends
get together to have a wonderful meal and give thanks for the
blessings in their lives. I know you first and second years are
itchin’ to jump on a plane and blabber on to your loved ones about
how much L.A. smells like your armpit, how you were held at gun
point yesterday, and how you would never drink until you reach the
legal age limit. When you get to be as old as I am, going home for
Thanksgiving is an adventure that even Indiana Jones wouldn’t want
to take on.
Now I remember why it was that I wanted to go to college Â
to get the hell out of that scary-ass household! Don’t get me
wrong. I love those freaks, and my family will give me soooo much
to tell my therapist when I start making enough money to pay for
counseling, but I just don’t understand why we have to go through
the same traumas every damn year.
As always, let me set the scene for you.
San Francisco, Calif., 6 p.m. Deep in the heart of the Richmond
district of the city by the Bay, the Aguilar house is bustling with
activity.
House cleaning, table setting, air freshening. As you enter the
front door you are overwhelmed by the sweet smell of turkey and the
sounds of my youngest brother, who is bringing down the three- week
old stockpile of dishes from his room and yelling, "Damn!! Look at
the nasty penicillin I’ve been growing on this burrito!"
My older sister is screaming at the television set, alerting the
talk show community that it is sexist and doesn’t have anything
better to talk about. I don’t see you changing the channel,
Lisa.
Mom is in the kitchen talking to her new friend, the turkey,
about how her kids are lazy and never help in the kitchen. Filled
with guilt, I go in and ask if there is anything I can do.
Guests arrive, and the party is bumpin’. Jazz is played in the
living room and wine is flowing. Mom has one too many, and she
starts talking about her three loving children.
Then the stories start to come out.
"Lisa and Robin were small babies, although it still hurt like
hell giving birth to them. Oh, and Robin gave me the worst
hemorrhoids, the doctor lanced three big ones. And Raul, whew!! He
was a big sucker. Ten goddamn pounds. I still have his umbilical
cord. Do you wanna see it?"
She rushes upstairs to grab a shriveled piece of human flesh
from her jewelry box. Mom, put down Raul’s umbilical cord. Mom! Are
you listening to me, mom? Put down that piece of crap! She dances
around the room and accidentally drops it in the Durkee French
Fried Onions. Which one is it? I can’t find it, because they all
look the same. Then the guests start to fondle the fried onions in
an impromptu search for Raul’s cord of life while Raul thinks it
would be funny if he started to eat the fried onions and spit them
on people. God help me.
Before I pass out from embarrassment, memories begin to flood my
mind.
I can remember trying to help my Dad with dessert at 8 years
old. I was running into the kitchen asking my Dad all sorts of
irritating 8-year-old questions. My dad tells me to stand still
with my arms at my sides and look up. Then I hear, "Marcia, Robin
has breasts!" How about the thousands of times I fell for,"Hey,
Rob. I have a present for you," then held out my hand only to
receive a can opener, cat litter pooper scooper and vacuum
bags.
Then there is the biggest of them all. I start my period for the
first time. In confidence, I tell my mother, who proceeds to flip
out about what a great day in history this is. At the holiday
dinner that evening I make my mother promise NOT to tell anyone at
the party that I had the Sunday paper between my legs. At dinner my
grandmother salutes my womanhood with a toast, exclaiming for the
group, "Welcome to the Club!" It is no wonder I moved to Los
Angeles.
Creamed pearl onions. Creamed pearl onions. Are you disgusted
yet? Yes, every year my mother slaves over a hot stove to cook an
amazing meal that is accentuated with creamed pearl onions. And
every year at the end of the night there is a full pot of creamed
pearl onions that NO ONE has touched.
Mom, why the hell do you make that crap? Jesus, you don’t even
eat it! "It reminds me of my mother and I miss her at the
holidays," she hollers at me across the room. So I guess that when
I grow up I will be forcing my kids to eat creamed pearl onions
because it reminds me of my mother. Maybe I should put it in their
bottles to condition them to like the slimy crap. Then, perhaps I
will avoid the tauntings.
Or maybe I should just keep this in mind for my therapist and I
to discuss at a later date.
Dinner is winding down, and the crowd is sufficiently tanked off
wine and cider. The pumpkin pies are broken out for all to enjoy.
Then the two drunkest males at the party grab the Cool Whip and
threaten each other for the television remote. Without fail, Cool
Whip starts to fly. Then you can see these two grown men, as well
as other drunk people who joined in on wrecking my house, on the
floor wrestling in a pile of cool whip. I sit in the corner pissed
as hell because I will be the one who has to clean it up. Who
invited these freaks?
Yes, I am proud of my family and all that we have been through,
because it has made me the person I am today. I will be going home
for Thanksgiving this year and will be writing my memoirs so that I
can share all of the trials and tribulations from the Aguilar
household. Let’s make my holiday a little brighter by beating the
living crap out of $C this weekend. At least I will have something
to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.