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It started when we got in the cab with Boyfriend's sister to go to their grandpa's Upper West Side fancy-schmantzy apartment. She was pissed. I mean, she was ready to crack like Smith when he realized the Matrix was disintegrating. I never figured out quite what was wrong, but it seems she thought her parents should pay for this cab ride because she was bringing a box to put in their basement… It didn't make sense.
Boyfriend just bowed his head and peered out the window, which was the only way he knew how to deal with her, and she turned her wrath on me: "Are you going to act like the Amy-and-Josh show? Everybody pays attention to you, and you're just like 'ohhh, la la la,'" she said, imitating me in the meanest way possible. I looked at Boyfriend. He looked at the floor. Uh oh…
Once we got to his grandpa's super-fancy humongous apartment, I discovered that all those years I'd spent helping my mother get the meal ready–well, okay, dodging her orders as she tried to get me to help her–were not necessary for a Thanksgiving meal. In my family, my three sisters and I would sit around the kitchen table, rolling up spiced meat into grape leaves to make an Armenian dish called Sarma. In Boyfriend's family, mom picked up the phone and had a caterer bring over a bunch of food… and hired people to serve it all.
It looked great: there was a turkey, a sausage stuffing, a ham-bean salad, a bacon-topped green salad … Hang on. What the… Okay. At the time, I was a vegetarian, but not one of those whiney "eyuw, how can you eat meat?" kinds. I just didn't eat the stuff, and I'd had dinner at Boyfriend's house enough times that his parents knew it. I didn't expect them to make me a special meal, but I did think they'd have SOMETHING for me — a bean salad? Some peanut butter? My family always has lasagna. Oh, well — at least I could have the cornbread.
Before we could eat, though, Boyfriend's dad and uncle started discussing the Civil War… you know, the one that pitted brother against brother? Well, so did this discussion. Within moments, they were screaming at each other, demanding to know things like "Do you honestly think the Southern soldiers didn't deserve compassion?" and "Oh, so you support slavery?" Call me crazy, but I don't like to eat in a war zone.
Then, in walked Crazy Aunt. Yes, Crazy Aunt. Even in this family, there was one member that out-insaned the rest of the loonybin. She walked in and began shouting that nobody respected her, they hadn't invited her husband. Well, nobody knew she HAD a husband. She'd just met and married him last week But that didn't stop her from pulling an operatic screamfest in the middle of the living room…
I took my cornbread and cranberry sauce and retreated to the kitchen to hang out with the caterer, maid, and nurse, who I liked better than these crazy yelling people. While I was there–in a kitchen big enough to engulf my entire dorm room–the nurse revealed that Grandpa wasn't doing so great. He was kind of getting senile, in fact, and he was doing weird stuff and kind of forgetting what was appropriate. I got up to go to the bathroom and walked past his room. Voila: Door wide open, Grandpa butt-naked.
By
the end of the night, I had a headache, stomach cramps, and a serious case
of the get-me-outta-heres! (Thanksgiving trivia: Did you know that if you
eat nothing but cranberries and corn bread for an entire day, your poop comes
out pink?!) Suddenly, my family–with their weird accents, strange foods,
and penchant for arguments that were not nearly as noisy or nasty–seemed
like the greatest family in the world.
Amy Kaye is the author of Focus on THIS!, which is about a girl who has some family issues of her own. Read more here.
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