She's gone soft folks

The holiday season is upon us again and for me it usually creates either feelings of extreme pressure and anxiety or togetherness and a deep need to be close to family. There’s really no grey area or middle ground. I like to live in extremes.

I was working on some of my Halldark cards this afternoon when nostalgia struck. It’s a real motherfucker; always making me sappy and soft when I need to be on point and with my head in the game. In the middle of my ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ Halldark card Pandora decided to fuck with me and throw some Coldplay on the shuffle; it’s been downhill ever since. The ghosts of Thanksgivings past have been playing racquetball in my head for the last 45 minutes. I figure if they’re going to get their workout, I might as well stretch my fingers too. I don’t know if anyone else visualizes ghosts in traditional Amish attire playing racquetball the way that I do, but if you don’t, perhaps you do now…and you’re welcome.

Growing up my family would gather at my Grandparents house which conveniently was next door. It was convenient in that my mother and I absolutely hated attending [sorry Mom] and waited until the last minute to show up, staying just long enough to eat and help clean up a little, and then leaving. You’d think that it would have been painless – you’d be wrong. If we could have played a game of rock, paper, scissors or arm wrestled our way out of attendance we gladly would have fought each other. Loser has to attend and make up a creative excuse as to why the other was staying home. Fatal flaw in that plan? My Grandmother would have marched right over concerned for our very lives and began praying at our bedside. Better to just bite our bottom lip and deal with it for a few hours.

My family was no more dysfunctional than the next. I’m choking on my water. Choking on my damn water. My family was so fucked up! I can say that shit though. You say it and I’ll cut you. I still miss that old house that I grew up in. I miss the arguments at the table, the terrible ambrosia salad, the tamales and turkey [we always had both – we embraced both cultures and couldn’t grasp moderation in either] and I miss my Grandfather.

Lino was a rough man who walked a bit stiff. He walked like a man who had just gotten off a horse. He walked that way for as long as I can remember. Even his arms swung awkwardly when he walked; that was just his gait. I wouldn’t quite say lumbering or Neanderthal, but he definitely had the posture and stride of a man that had endured much physical labor in his life. Maybe that’s why he was such an asshole. I’ll stop right here and remind you, this is my family and while what I say may seem harsh; it’s the truth. He was, in fact, an asshole. He loved us though and that was never in question…ok, maybe it was questioned, but we knew it deep down. He provided for us; all of us.

My Aunt Vicki and Grandmother would work tirelessly in the kitchen while my Uncle and Grandfather would watch football. My Grandfather was already drunk, having snuck out into the garage for several pulls off the nasty ass bottle of Canadian booze he had stashed out there; you know, the bottom shelf stuff. My Uncle would join him shortly. Mom and I would wait till we were comfortably back in our own home to get shitfaced; no one needs to see how we drink. Besides, the two of us get loose-lipped when we drink so all those silly “feelings” might come out and God forbid I should let slip that what I really think. I’m even moderating here. It’s not that I still harbor crappy feelings, it’s just that re-hashing that shit does no one any good. I’ve learned that other people have feelings and when you hurt them, it’s hard to fix that kind of shit. It’s not like when I was twelve and ripped Barbie’s head off; you can’t just put it back together all nice and neat. *I always shaved Barbie first, then I ripped their heads off. I was troubled. *

We would all sit down at the table eventually; all but my Grandmother. She continued to serve all of us. She continued heating tortillas and fetching my Grandfather whatever he barked at her to get him. Oh, by this time I’m hoping that you’ve been swift enough to pick up on the fact that I’m Hispanic. I dropped a few clues: Tortillas, Tamales, Grandpa’s name being Lino. Besides, most white families know better than to live next door to one another. We all together still? Ok, great! Moving on. My poor Grandmother would always be the last to eat and she would sit by herself; not even in the dining room where the rest of us had eaten, but instead at this shit ass little table in the kitchen that was covered with a mess of crap: mangoes, 5 different types of cereal, Folgers coffee crystals, assorted Tupperware, and a radio that only tuned in am stations. I fucking hated that thing. I can still see the wall mounted yellow phone if I close my eyes.

I live in San Diego now and I’m far enough away from my family that I don’t feel the crushing anxiety around the holidays any more. I’m also sober so that changes things quite a bit. I don’t need to escape for a drink. I don’t fear that people can tell that I’m already tossed. I don’t feel the need or desire to chew my arm off to get out of those situations and quite frankly I would pay good fucking money to have my asshole Grandfather back for another Thanksgiving. I fucking hate that Coldplay did this to me. Sappy bitch! I miss my family; my dysfunctional, erratic, chaotic, and lovable family. I spent the better part of my life disassociating myself from them and today while writing a Halldark [fucking figures] card, I am struck sentimental.

I’ve blabbered much longer than I intended. I don’t know that I even had a point. I guess I just had a feeling and some free time. Both are dangerous when you present them to me. Hopefully this is just temporary and I haven’t suffered any permanent damage. Maybe it’s just a phase – like Nickelback. Oh fuck! Pray for me.