Why is it that once you’ve been told you can’t do something, you really, really, really want to do it?
Example A: “Kate, you can’t fly. Period, end of story. You can’t fly until at least January, dependent on conditions A, B &C.”
But I want to fly (no, really I don’t.) I want to go home to Michigan for the holidays and be surrounded in the glow of family. (I’ve clearly lost my damn mind.)
Reality? I really want Tim Hortons. I really don’t want to have my head explode en route to Detroit and gross people out with bleeding ears and bitching me.
However, since my new ENT doc put the smackdown on any flying between now and well, what feels like EFFING FOREVER (mid January), I’m determined to get on the road, or in the air.
If you know me for at least a year (Tamara, John, Caren, Kim, Amy, et all….) you know that I am rather ambivilant about going home for the shitshow that is a Detroit Holiday. Family time, in extremely small doses is lovely, but more than a day or so, I start to get twitchy. To justify going home to the tundra at the most expensive time of the year, it normally requires a 5 day minimum visit. I should only ever go home for 3 days, 2 nights. This is the issue
Here is what happens (around the holidays).
I arrive! Horray! Oh Joy! Fa la la la la. Land, elbow my way through DTW, mom picks me up from the airport, and I beg for Tim Hortons. I suck down the caffeinated crack and brace myself for driving through snowy streets, and endless errands. Oh isn’t the snow just gorgeous? Look at the snow? Doesn’t Mr. B’s house look cute? Oh look at what Bootsie did with her lights? Oh don’tcha know this is just wonderful to be home…
Go to the Kroger/Liquor Store and stock up.
Bask in the holiday glow while mom does her mom thing. Holiday Glow could be exchanged for the words “wine buzz, liquored up haze.”
Day 2. Energy escalates as mom decides to make 14 more dozen cookies, because the 22 dozen already made aren’t enough. 10 more trips to Krogers ensues. I start to whine about the fact that no one plows the Kroger parking lot enough and there is salt on my boots. Swing by Johns Good Time in between trip 3/4 for a quick cocktail.
Day 2- Evening. Fa la la la laaaing with a friend. Drink a lot. Come home/face plant on twin sized bed. Wake up three hours later as dad blows his nose outside my bedroom door. It’s so good to be home. Message my cousin Amy “why do we do this to ourselves EVERY YEAR?”
Day 3- Christmas Eve. Oh Katie, let’s play Christmas music all day. Did you wrap your presents? Did you make your bed? Did you do your laundry ?What are you adding to your coffee? Isn’t it too early to drink? Oh Katie, did you really finish that bottle of Bailys already? Let’s make another list. Dad hands me all of his presents and asks me to wrap them. EVERY YEAR DAD. Every year. I love doing it, but it makes me laugh. Since I was old enough to stick tape on Walgreens wrapping paper, I’ve been wrapping for Daddyo.
Christmas Eve night- con dad into going for a drive to look at the lights. Possible stop at another local watering hole. Depends on the temperature at home. Text message my favorite uncle and say “why did I do this again?” Stop by Jerrys liquor one more time to ensure that we have enough for Christmas day…
Day 4- Christmas. Presents. Breakfast Booze. Cheesy Potatoes. More family. More booze. I disappoint someone at some point for life choices I made 14 years ago when I was 23. Drink some more. Find some tylenol, head over to another family members house and drink again. This time, get emboldened enough to go outside and smoke a rogue cig.
Ya, I think I will be ok staying home this year. Documenting the daily travails makes me realize that exploding my head isn’t worth it, and for one year only, I’ll be missing the fun. Shhh- don’t tell anyone, but I’m really ok with it.