Holiday Preparation

Between my grandmother’s death, and living so far away from my relatives, the holidays generate more stress than fun for my parents and brother. Regardless, we always pull through with a few good laughs. Today kicked-off our holiday cheer.

It was the Tuesday before Christmas, and all through the house, ALL the creatures were stirring, including the uninvited mouse.

My mother was preparing the bottom cabinets for the inflow of “holiday cheer,” also known as bourbon, and she notices remnants of an unwanted rodent. We occupied this house for eight years, and never found more than one or two beetles lurking around. Does she scream? Nope. Does she cry? Not exactly. So what does she do? “Fuck! There’s a frigging mouse in here! This is not what I wanted to fucking do today.” I have acceptable hearing, and the house lacks substantial square footage, so I continue crocheting on the couch. Mom’s a doer, and this wasn’t about to slow her down.

“Oh, you got to be effing kidding me! Ash, come here!” So I do, and even I’m surprised. In a tipped-over thermos resides a hoard of fresh cat crunchies. The critter made a little house complete with a kitchen. Mom continues to pull Tupperware out from the cabinet like Marry Poppins. Then she removes a severely large, sterling item. I inquire about its purpose, and learn that the magnificent piece of silver is an antique waffle maker. We had a waffle maker my entire life, and I find out about it just now.

I acquire the cord and plug it in. Sixty or so years later, the bad boy still works. We have pancake mix, so I leave the iron plugged in to clean and use. Mom continues to mumble obscenities while Lemon-Pledging the entire kitchen. We pause to yell at the cat for drinking out of the toilet, something he does frequently even though he has a freshwater supply 24/7. Mom concludes her lecture to the cat about proper bathroom and animal habits by digressing back to the original situation: “You need to start killing the son-of-bitches and earning your keep, Dumb Ass!”

The waffle iron resumes my attention, and I open it, filling the kitchen with smoke, from sixty-year-old grease. Officially banned from the kitchen, I decide this is a cute little tidbit and reminder about why my family has a touch-and-go relationship with the holidays and deserves to be written down.