I’ve never been one for holidays, be it Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, the Fourth of July, or whatever other days marked for a few days off from school with most businesses closed, probably with an extended weekend involved. I’d like to think that now that I’ve graduated and won’t be heading to grad school for at least another year I’ll be saved from the banal comments from classmates, I have more than a slight suspicion that once I do find a job, I’ll be forced to endure more of the same, only I’ll have to worry about impressing my superiors and placating my coworkers to show I am a ‘team player.’
It’s almost always the same response, starting the day after the holiday. That’s ok though, because it’s always the same question. I’ve fine-tuned my response, milking it to give as much information in a few seconds and eliminating anyone’s desire for a follow-up question. My eyes glass over, my right eyebrow cocks downward as that eye begins to squint, my nostrils flare, my lower jaw extended. Disgruntled sigh, “It was…” I let the S trail off, giving way into another disgruntled sigh which, under different circumstances, could be interpreted as a grunt. A few seconds of silence, which I would describe as deafening if A) that weren’t a cliché, and B) I thought that phrase made sense. I will say that the silence is palpable, and fraught with the verbs that are normally associated with the word fraught. “Fine.” The F is explosive much in the way the F in ‘fuck’ or ‘faggot’ is, given more weight when you know the syllables following it are filled with tension and meaning.
I never really know what else to say. I’ve never been good at small talk, and there are a lot of things I feel more comfortable writing and blogging about as opposed to saying them to casual strangers and friends of my parents, to former classmates and ex-coworkers, people I vaguely know from church and co-stars from the community theatre plays I whored myself out to during junior and senior high school. I’ve never been one to wear all black, but I have always been the ‘artistic’ one, so I can usually get away with it.
As easy as it is to come up with small anecdotes to write and blog about, I’ve never been good at weaving them into casual conversation.
Do I tell the story about the tree? My parents were too lazy to get the tree before I returned home, and so my sister and I were forced to search on the 23rd for the last tree available in the tri-county area. The next day, between services of midnight mass, the tree mysteriously falls down, with no one in the room to blame, and the light bulbs break, along with 3/4s of the ornaments. We decided it would be easier to take the tree out to the curb now, instead of having a few days with an undecorated, unlit tree taking up space in the living room. We had a tree for a little over 27 hours.
Do I tell stories of what I got, and what I didn’t get? I got lots of clothing, some jeans and sweatshirts and dress shirts, all of which need to be returned due to sizes and/or butt-ugliness. I got an electronic sudoku puzzle thing, some nagging books about finding a job and resume building, and earmuffs. No DVDs, no CDs, and no iPod, goddamnit. At least my sisters gave me a few tshirts from threadless and Santa gave me an IOU for a new pair of glasses, because the ones I have are on their last legs.
Do I tell the story about church? How we went to the early, 4 o’clock service, which was family-oriented, in order to gawk at the small children dressed in their Sunday finest and trying their hardest to be behaved, only to find that the music selections were weak, painfully weak? As cute as the little kids were, there just wasn’t enough music for our family to really believe it was Christmas. (We’re music snobs, especially my sister and me, who spent most of our elementary and secondary school careers in every single Christmas pageant, show, and choral concert known to the English language.) We returned for midnight mass, only to realize that without the little children present, we would have to actually listen to the sermon, and that the new minister is incredibly boring. Also, most of my family is unaccustomed to staying up that late, and therefore overcompensated by drinking too many caffeinated beverages, which left my younger sisters especially jittery and anxious.
Do I talk about how my plans to spend New Years in Minneapolis fell through? Do I talk about the awkward time at my grandparents, who gave long winded speeches about living through the Depression and trying to find whatever jobs they could get, and how I shouldn’t be so greedy and just take a job at McDonalds for a while? Do I say that I found out my Dad doesn’t believe in global warming? Do I say that I stepped on a scale for the first time in 5 months and I now weigh 182 lbs, more than I have ever weighed? Do I talk about how my Dad forgot to replace the screens for the windows in my room, and how I unknowingly slept for the first few nights with the windows open, freezing?
It all just gets too complicated. Well, complicated and whiny. Sure, my way is antisocial and rude, but as an aspiring professional writer and artfag I can get away with the moodiness and misanthropy. Kinda.
Although later this week when I leave home and return to my apartment, and invariably bump into the few friends who will be staying in town as I search for a job, I think I am going to say that my Christmas was right eye squinting, nostrils flared, lower jaw extended, “Adequate.” The ‘ah’ will be more like an ‘ugh,’ and the ‘qua’ will be as explosive as ‘queer,’ to be sure. I just want to mix it up a bit. And possibly allude to Lindsey Lohan, except I don’t think I’m quite that gay.
