Trying Really Hard to Like My Hometown

Thanksgiving is the epitome of America, in all of its comfort cuisine galore. Who doesn't love awkwardly forced family bonding and football? (Not to be confused with the international sport, that would be for pansies, kind of like the metric system.) But honestly, not every familial experience is magical. Sometimes you get home, look around, and think, "Hey, I just stepped over the threshold into holiday hell. I'd really rather be in Tremblant." And that's OK.

Last time I trekked to Virginia, I was quite literally ready to shoot myself. Lingering in not quite winter weather, Fairfax was a dreary haze of brown. Tysons was great… but it was difficult to revel in post Thanksgiving sales while super moms scurried past, complete with stirrup leggings and holiday decal sweaters. I later swerved dangerously close to a pole when one of them parallel parked with deftness eerily akin to a stunt car driver. She had honed these skills while running late to both soccer games and PTA meetings, I'm sure. God forbid I end up as one of these women…

Now - mostly because my roommates have already left the apartment quite empty and the homeless man down the street is not what I consider companionship - I'm back. I swear I'm going to like Virginia. My plan involves a bottle, or two or three, of wine and camping out at those friends' homes which are devoid of parental nosiness. There are other key steps, of which I will continue to outline over the course of this supposed holiday break.

Step 1: Learning to live with my *insert explicative here* family

After spending hours next to Jeremy the Christian evangelical flirt (how this seeming oxymoron existed, don't ask, because I too, am confused) I am relieved by the sight of my mother's silver sedan rolling past my terminal. Allow me to clarify that it continues to roll past, while I frantically attempt to chase her down. Settling back with my luggage I try to suppress plots to sabotage the upcoming meal, remembering that God wouldn't condone revenge. Beside, I quite enjoy the holiday fare, in spite of the way it makes my ass jiggle for weeks.

I thank God for alcohol though, consuming glasses in between, and during and after, about three thousand calorie plates. And let's not forget the uncomfortable family discourse. Thanks mom, I would love to share my sex life with you over the yams. Two bottles in and I'm beginning to think that Thanksgiving is the best goddamn holiday ever! (I later apologize to God for taking his name in vain, and more profusely to my liver for the extensive abuse. On the bright side, my brother informs me that my mother managed to get tanked as well, and we delighted the family with our renditions of both Rent and Phantom of the Opera. Is this really a bright side? I think I've given up chardonnay at least…)

Step 2: Escaping the Aftermath

So whilst my liver continues its suicide attempts, I discover the extent of which my mother is now privy to in my life, upon which I ponder joining my liver. It seems half of America creates odes to her best friend, mom. But sentimentality aside, there are problems in life, such as the disappearance of your roommate's "tobacco pipe," to which maternal guidance is unnecessary.

Holing up at my friend's apartment later, I am in bliss. Trashy reality television blares in the background and the place reeks of cheap beer. (Because nothing sums up your early twenties better than the watered down brew whose cost is approximately equivalent to your Gatorade and bag of chips.) Her friend - let's call him "Mike" - is two cases in, and his swerving frame makes me wonder if toppling from his six and a half feet would hurt more than my mere five.

Mike is a little alchy in the making, drowning out the sorrows of his wicked depressing life. His father is sleeping with multiple women, but Mike can't tell his mother for fear of - another - mental breakdown. Mike knows his silence will only perpetuate this cycle. But would you intentionally disturb your fragile mother? Bottoms up, because at least alcohol understands.

Step 3: I swear I love my family

Don't get me wrong, I love my family. For instance:

1. I love the football, good red blooded American pigskin. I watch Dallas-Washington games via speakerphone with my brother. There are embarrassing photos of us in our football and cheerleading uniforms, crookedly juxtaposition in the family room. While our senior portraits are relegated to the basement hallway…

2. I love the acceptance to virtually all aspects of life. As my father so eloquently puts it, "let the gays marry, they just like to play ball for the other side." Then again, any affinity for the name Bill Parcells would probably result in a cold shoulder. (Did I mention that I'm a Dallas fan? It makes for really interesting family discourse.)

3. I love the closeness (in between bouts of extreme hatred). We're opinionated and not afraid to express it… kind of
like Crossfire, minus too much intellectual stimulation. And however pretentious you may be, we'll take you down. But don't worry, because that is in fact, healthy.

There are other tidbits of affection I'm forgetting, but enough of this lovefest. They're family, you love to hate them. It's like the medicine forced down your throat as a child, you may detest that taste, but it'll eventually make the cough go away. In a way I'm glad I came.

But there is a reason I live a six hour flight away.