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December 29, 1997
Volume 1: An Auntie Dynamite Post Christmas
Late Christmas Eve/Early Christmas morning:
I think of my nuclear family about four times a year. Three times when they phone me. Once because it's Christmas and even Auntie Dynamite can be guilted by enough tinsel. I completed my shopping for them well in advance, excepting one crucial ingredient. This component didn't materialize until December 23rd. Out of some obscure sense of obligation I made sure the gifts were wrapped by Christmas morning, even though they have to travel 3000 miles before they'll be opened: late as usual.
They are not as late as they have been. One year they were distributed during a surprise visit in June. In the last eight years, I have not spent one Christmas with my immediate relatives. I have, however, spent one in a Karaoke pizza joint listening to drunken sods mangle Guns'n'Roses.
Christmas afternoon:
In a daze, I realize I am at my almost-ex-parents-in-law's house. Auntie Dynamite still lives with Uncle Dynamite, yes kids, but shortly she will become Ms. Dynamite and take up aerobics. Then she will lick her ruby lips and run off with some sinewy young houseboy... Mmmm... But I digress.
My in-laws are well on their way to getting cheerfully drunk. If Auntie knows anything, it's how to learn from her elders, so I take their example to heart. Within a couple of hours I'm curled up out back in a shed, my ex-husband eyeing me sympathetically, and burbling about how much I loathe the holidays. I console myself by leering at my sister-in-law's Chippendales calendar, and agreeing that yes, the twenty year old Cabernet does taste a lot like port.
December 26th:
The day is spent in a deep funk after hearing Juzo Itami is dead. No more Ramen westerns! On reading more of the details, I can't help but wonder if he ate one fruitcake too many.
My natural despondency is compounded as I thrash through the local mall, looking for sale priced unmentionables and cheap smoked salmon. Several shoppers are subjected to my icy glare, but no fatalities were reported. Returning home, I attempt to teleport the as-yet unmailed Christmas presents to the east coast. Alas, I have expended too much of my energies, in a doomed attempt to cause peace on earth, goodwill to men, and a naked Dan Rather on the air.
December 27th:
Elongated discussion of the word 'poontang'. I argue that it sounds like it should be an Olympic gymnastics event, possibly involving a trampoline. Friend counters that it sounds more like a water sport. I point out she's thinking of 'pontoon' but we agree that pontoons and poontang are not incompatible.
Holiday cheer rapidly disintegrating. Didn't even bother to put out the plastic mistletoe this year. Then, lo, the mail arrives. Enclosed is a fat envelope from the handsome and charming Ron Goulart. Within said package were two issues of Ron Goulart's Weekly and two wittily autographed vintage novels. After clearing the mist from her eyes, Auntie immediately slammed them into her orgone-powered vault, where they will reside until Mr. Goulart dies. At such time, they will be auctioned at Southeby's for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Auntie will subsequently purchase a small island, populate it with lithe young men, and touch lacy hankies to her eyes as she contemplates a future where no living man dares call her 'my dear'.
December 28th:
Seriously contemplated contributing to the Richard Nixon Library and Birthplace. Auntie has a long standing regard for RMN that even surpasses her regard for Ron Goulart. We are of compatible Sun and Chinese astrological signs. We're also of the same personality type according to the Keirsey Temperament Sorter. Ah, Richard, if only I had been born forty years ago. You and I would have kicked JFK's aristocratic behind.
Christmas is now, mercifully, officially over, excepting the bag of unmailed presents. It sits like an albatross on the living room floor. Tomorrow I will hang it about my neck and trundle off to the post office. Let it never be said that Auntie shirks any more than she can possibly get away with.
Courage, and shuffle the cards.
Posted by cd at December 29, 1997 1:19 AM
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