i miss my dog (on holiday ambivalence)

Music: Archer Prewitt: White Sky (1999)

I've just returned from a delightful dinner with my friend Jay Childers at an old (I mean, very old) Little Five Points haunt, The Vortex. Jay is here and visiting with his folks west of Hotlanta, while I'm on the east. Convergence in the middle was a nice oasis. Jay and I talked about the similarity of our experiences and families, and laughed when I explained what "quality time" often means: sitting in a small "den" with my mother and father as the television blares a re-run of Law & Order; me, trying to read a magazine or book; mom, passed out; dad, snoring.

Now, given the fact my folks literally pass out when the sun goes down, you might wonder why I don't borrow a car and go do something. After I've been home for a few days, that's precisely what I do. But if I did it on the first few days, it would communicate to my folks I don't want to be with them. It's a difficult sort of guilt to explain, but it's a guilt particular to only children. Holiday at the Gunn's household is pretty much a primal Oedipal sandwich, where I regress to the state that I was when I left home (eighteen) and perform a role I've long, long, long outgrown.

Surprisingly, when I returned from dinner mom and pop were awake and watching television. So I tried to join them and visit. Unfortunately, one is only allowed to talk during commercials. Mom shared with me one of the recipes in her Southern Living magazine, but this annoyed pop, who then turned up the volume to the television program he was watching (some show called The Mentalist) so loud that we got the message. I decided to retire to the guest bedroom and bang out a blog post.

This morning I went with my mother to the grocery store. That was actually a nice visit with her. Then, my father wanted me to go with him to buy presents for my mother, so I went along. We also had a generally pleasant discussion. My "politically correct" ears only had to endure a couple of racial slurs and irritating racist complaints (mostly about Hispanic people and the Spanish language). My favorite: pop points to an interracial couple (yes, in public, he points) and says, "Salt and Pepper." I just ignore this stuff, but I was puzzled how I was supposed to take this: "salt and pepper is bad," I think. But I didn’t inquire further.

Ah, the ambivalence of the holiday always hits me at night; affective memories sink most quickly in the soft tissue swamp of memory. I'm looking forward to lunch with loving friends tomorrow in Athens. I've been asked to cook again for the Christmas dinner, so I'll do that tomorrow night. These are fun and good things. Christmas day will be nice, as we'll meet-up with the extended family. On the way home from that gathering we will see my grandmother in the nursing home. That will be very hard. But I picked her up the new Josh Groban CD, and she will love that. She will remember that. She will remember me, despite what my mother says.

And I miss my dog.