Christmastime Fun

Christmas fell about a month and a half after I got married. Though the honeymoon was truly a torturous event and Ex and I were already talking about how this might or might not be working out (more on that in the future), we had nevertheless committed to hosting Christmas Eve dinner for both his family and mine, the latter of whom were flying in for the holiday. Tickets were already booked and there was no time to back out of our obligation. Despite my lack of cooking skills coupled with my angry awe that my flowery, naive notions of marriage were quickly dissipating, I was still determined to put on a Christmas dinner that would please and respect everyone.

When I say "respect," I mean that Ex's family members, to whom he seems inextricably bound with apron strings of steel, have very specific traditions. Ex is first-generation American and his parents arrived in the States from Eastern Europe when they were teenagers, so needless to say, the ties to his family's ethnic culture are fierce. On the other hand, my family has been here for many generations and we have a somewhat more casual approach to holidays, wherein we have no problem participating in others' traditions. In fact, we all enjoy learning about other cultures and their practices.

In the spirit of "enjoyment of other cultures," I delved into Ex's traditional holiday practices with enthusiasm. I knew that his family wasn't thrilled that I was not of Ex's same culture and I was painfully aware that they were even less excited that I wasn't Catholic. Christmas Eve, however, was a chance to prove to them that I wasn't a lost cause. I could cook! (I couldn't at that time, but I could still mix a mean drink.) I would show respect for their traditions and they would like me! (I did, and they didn't.) Ex would fall madly in love with me again because his family finally approved! (I can't say anything with regard to the former, but the latter clearly didn't transpire.)

I spent 2 weeks researching their ethnic approach to Christmas Eve online and in the library. I looked up recipes (serving turkey on Christmas Eve surely would have resulted in my theoretical burning at the stake), I looked up prayers in their native language, and I prepared myself for every possible eventuality of which I could conceive. Except for the very formidable, hurricane-force Mother-In-Law.

By the time Christmas Eve had arrived, I had spent close to $800 on food and alcohol and had been cooking for 3 days. My parents had already flown in and my Mom was helping me cook everything that I had spent painstaking hours preparing. The hour soon arrived in which I expected my in-laws to burst through the door with great appreciation that I had gone to such lengths to prepare them an authentic dinner in accord with their traditions.

I had moved to the suburbs (my personal version of Hell) after I was married and the kitchen was at the back of the house, from which point I had a very clear view of the parking area of the driveway. As I was washing off a knife in the kitchen sink, I saw headlights approach and thought, "This is it, they're here. They're actually going to like me now!"

But as I saw my mother-in-law get out of the car and move to her trunk, my heart began sinking. She unloaded a couple of bags of gifts, yes, but she also unloaded a large cardboard box and a few other bags with items inside that I couldn't yet identify. My Mom looked at me and said, "Are you OK?"

"I'm OK, Mom."

"But your hands are shaking."

"I know, Mom, it's a family trait." But my hands weren't shaking because of the family history of hypoglycemia, they were shaking because I was beginning to realize what was happening.

My mother-in-law burst through the door with an enormous cardboard box filled with an entire smoked salmon and countless other preparations and variety of fish, as well as several plastic bags filled with potatoes, vegetables, and specific ethnic foods of their tradition. I was speechless, and for me to have nothing to say is a feat in and of itself. I have to give her props on that one.

My Mom to this day still says to me, "Almost, I'll never forget it. It's like she bumped me out of the way with one hip, bumped you out of the way with the other, and we were instantly irrelevant to the remainder of the evening."

My Mom is right. Mother-In-Law dropped her box and bags on the kitchen table and walked over to the stove where my Mom and I were cooking. She scrutinized the various pots and said, "Well, this is garbage."

I was simply stunned into silence as she proceeded to dump everything that I had been cooking into the trash or garbage disposal and set out the food she had brought in its place. It was if I had been shamed into stone. I couldn't move except to pour myself several glasses of champagne to try and loosen my tongue out of its entombment, but I was still unable to utter a single protest.

I was aware that my Mom was looking at me intently to determine how I was handling this travesty, but if I had looked at her and seen anything resembling concern, I would have lost it. I knew that I had to make it through dinner. And somehow, I did just that.

However, as soon as dinner was over, I left the dishes, left the group that had amassed around the after-dinner drinks, grabbed a bottle of Krug, and went upstairs to the bedroom with my champagne glass.

I took a Xanax (no, I'm not proud of mixing a benzodiazepine with alcohol, but I was desperate) and poured myself another glass of champagne. Soon after, my Mom opened the door to the bedroom and I felt hot tears burning the back of my throat and eyes just at the comforting sight of her. She sat down on the bed next to me, put her arms around me, and said, "Oh, baby girl, I'm so sorry." I spent much of the rest of the evening there with my Mom, whose empathy earned her a tear-stained sweater, and she only left me when Ex came upstairs after the oh-so-festive evening concluded.

I can't fault Ex entirely because I believe he felt badly that night, but he still hadn't stood up for me at all, nor had he said a single word to his mother about the inappropriate nature of her actions. When I was finally on the verge of sleep, I made a promise to myself. The next time I hosted Christmas Eve for the in-laws (or any other holiday, for that matter), I would drink that bottle of Krug before they arrived.