Family ways sometimes leave a lot to be desired

Photo by luist & his inner pig, Flickr.com.

Photo by luist & his inner pig, Flickr.com.

Tribal customs can be a mystery to outsiders. Are you fine with that?

“Feliz Navidad,” sang those sweet, high-pitched voices of the fourth and fifth grade children.
“I want to wish you a Peaceful Solstice. I want to wish you a Happy Hanukkah. I want to wish you a Joyful Kwanza. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.”
It was the most politically correct holiday concert I’d ever seen.
If only my own holiday rituals could be so inclusive.
There’s one very important fact about marriage that gets lost in the sea of white silk and perfect place settings that all of those bridal magazines are so enamored with.
You don’t just marry a man; you marry an entire family.
With that family comes decades worth of holiday rituals that are guaranteed to be different than your own.
And let’s be honest here, when it comes to holiday celebrations, different isn’t just different — it’s plain wrong.
So after we’ve cleaned up all of that wrapping paper and eaten our last bite of Christmas turkey and we pull out a deck of cards this year, I’ll have to ask, once again: “Are we playing Dinaberg or Klobucher rules?” Because Klobucher rules are weird. It’s like they actually read the directions or something. And they don’t cheat, which I take as an affront to every thing my father ever taught me.
I love my husband’s family, but sometimes when I’m with them I feel like I’m an anthropologist digging through exotic terrain.
I should have known I was in for trouble when we were first dating and my future husband took me out for a lovely birthday dinner. The food was fabulous. He’d invited only my favorite friends and bought me that perfect pair of earrings I had slyly hinted that I wanted.
It was when he took me home that the trouble began.
There was no cake.
No cake.
Not just no chocolate cake, but no cake whatsoever.
“But we had Crème Brulee at the restaurant,” he protested, like that had anything to do with my missing birthday cake.
He didn’t understand. Birthdays are a big deal in my family. They last at least a month (several months in my mother’s case), with both family and friend versions of the celebration.
The specifics may vary a little from year to year, but one thing doesn’t. There is always cake.
And by the way, the proper way to figure out birthday candles is your age plus “one to grow on.” This is science.
“A little more is always better” is my family’s philosophy.
My husband comes from a mother who fed four growing kids on two Chinese dinners from Ming-ons.
I, on the other hand, come from a Jewish mother.
So I know that if, God forbid, you have a party and there aren’t leftovers for at least a week, you didn’t make enough food.
It’s enough to make you feel guilty for a year.
And if you feel guilty about something you have to talk about it, right?
In my family you have to talk about everything. And talk, and talk, and talk … until you’re so tired of talking you forgot what you were talking about.
Then you can talk about that.
My husband’s family doesn’t get the whole talking thing. Mostly they’re “just fine” with just about everything.
But how do they really feel? We’ll never know. And that’s “just fine” with them.
I, for one, have never been “just fine” about anything in my life.
I certainly wasn’t “just fine” that one year we had Thanksgiving dinner at my ex-Uncle’s house. Sure they had turkey and a killer game of Pictionary but there were no mashed potatoes.
That’s right. Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes.
Can you imagine such a thing? No wonder he’s an ex-Uncle.
Which is why my sister and I spent the latter part of that evening driving around in search of mashed potatoes. It simply wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without them.
And when we finally found them at a Thai restaurant they were the most delicious potatoes we’d ever tasted.
Kind of like that gigantic flourless chocolate cake the year after my husband didn’t buy me a cake.
“As if I’d ever forget again,” he barked.
“See, that’s why we talked about it so much honey,” I mentioned for about the 12th time that year.
“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
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When Leslie is not studying the tribal customs of her in-laws, she can be reached at Leslie@LeslieDinaberg.com. For more columns visit www.LeslieDinaberg.com.

Originally published in South Coast Beacon on December 23, 2004.

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