In the aftermath of the holidays, there has been an influx of stories with a single theme running through them. These stories, all of them exchanged over too many bottles of wine, revolved around a single topic: having your partner with you at your parents’ house over the holidays.
And the unexpected theme? The theme that should never, under any circumstances, be allowed past the bedroom door? That theme, dear readers, is Grandmothers.
One of my friends, Sophie, was certifiably insane for ten days before she left for Croatia to spend the break with her boyfriend and his family. Mention the word ‘Christmas’ and she started hopping around like a rabbit. This translated to a bit of understandable randyness when the two were finally reunited behind one political border.
According to Sophie, the scene went something like this:
By the time she arrived, she hadn’t seen her boyfriend in more than three months. She greeted his family respectfully, and played the polite, friendly girlfriend for about twenty minutes. Then she explained quietly to him that if he didn’t take her to his bedroom immediately, she was going to jump him in front of everyone — even his greasy old uncle! The boyfriend, (who apparently has a bit more self-control than Sophie), laughed and hugged her and told her that “the family tradition is to always make cookies” on Christmas Eve. Well, you can imagine.
Sophie shook her fist silently at whichever angry god had cursed her with a cookie-baking boyfriend, then sighed and started chopping nuts (for the cookies). After about six hours, the cookie-baking-Croatian-torture seemed to be about finished. Her boyfriend was looking quite sexy in his flour-covered apron, so they found a chance to scurry up the stairs to his bedroom. Thinking they finally had the house to themselves, they started to tear off clothes with an eagerness only jetlag and men in aprons can conjure up. Just as her shirt flew off her head, his Grandmother let out a wail of disgust from the corner. She was in his bedroom surfing the Internet with his laptop, and seemed about as shocked as they were to have her supposed solitude ruined. Needless to say, this Granny-encounter sort of killed the mood.
Not being one to be topped in the realm of holiday sex-stories, I offered my own experience as salve for her embarrassment: my Dutch boyfriend and I spent the holidays with my American family. Wait, let me clarify that: my Dutch boyfriend and I spent the holidays with my Catholic, conservative, slightly-crazed American family.
Christmas day came and went in the usual flurry of wrapping paper, too much food and too many grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles…. By this time, drunk on good wine, I was trying my best to send telepathic messages about going upstairs and frolicking to my boyfriend ‘K.’ from across the turkey carcass. “What’s wrong with you?” my loving sister asked in reference to my squinted eyes. “You look like you’re trying to fart.”
When it came time for the post-feast walk, I volunteered the two of us to “stay and clean up.” K. looked at me like I was crazy, but agreed to stay behind. We waved off everyone, then I grabbed his hand and we flew upstairs. About five minutes later we came down to clean things up as promised, little smiles of self-congratulations on our faces.
Just below my old bedroom however is the living room. This room is usually empty, because it’s more formal, but when my Grandmother visits she likes to stake out one of the big chairs and scatter things like needlepoint, reading glasses and teacups around the border of her territory. It was with horror that we now saw her, enthroned amid this geriatric paraphernalia, shooting daggers from her eyes at the two of us. With metal prongs of disapproval piercing our hearts, we stood open-mouthed, staring back at her in utter embarrassment. Ok, well, I was staring back in utter embarrassment — K. was whistling Christmas carols.
There was nothing to say. “Maybe she didn’t hear anything,” I whispered to K. in the kitchen, half-hoping, half-wishing, half-offering to give up my first-born-child for this to be true! K. looked at me like I was drooling or something and shrugged his shoulders. He winked at me, continued whistling, and started washing dishes.
When the coast was clear we staged an experiment. K. went up to the bedroom and started bouncing on the mattress. I sat downstairs in my Grandmother’s chair and tried to ignore the swinging chandelier, falling plaster and thumping ceiling. The little grains of hope that had started to take root in my deluded mind exploded like so many tiny bombs of guilt. There was no use. My Grandmother, my sweet, widowed, Catholic, probably-a-virgin-except-somehow-my-mom-is-here Grandmother had heard everything! In fact, she probably even got a good dusting of plaster on the innocent pages of her Sudoku.
We felt dirty. Sophie felt dirty. Her boyfriend would’ve felt dirty, but apparently he couldn’t get his sweater off his head and missed the whole thing. This is worse than the time your housemate discovered you in a compromising position on the kitchen floor. This is worse than the time the security guard found your friends in the back of an old SUV. This is worse, worse, worse because Grandmothers make you feel so… naughty.
Two days later we left for New York City and the first thing we did was stop at a motel thirty miles outside my parents’ city. The beautiful feeling of guilt-free sinning washed over us like the pure rain of forgiveness. The Grandmothers of the world would not have been proud.
Dorthy Parker, MSc Architecture, is from the United States. Her next column will be published in Delta 09. onbezorgd@gmail.com.
In the aftermath of the holidays, there has been an influx of stories with a single theme running through them. These stories, all of them exchanged over too many bottles of wine, revolved around a single topic: having your partner with you at your parents’ house over the holidays. And the unexpected theme? The theme that should never, under any circumstances, be allowed past the bedroom door? That theme, dear readers, is Grandmothers.
One of my friends, Sophie, was certifiably insane for ten days before she left for Croatia to spend the break with her boyfriend and his family. Mention the word ‘Christmas’ and she started hopping around like a rabbit. This translated to a bit of understandable randyness when the two were finally reunited behind one political border.
According to Sophie, the scene went something like this:
By the time she arrived, she hadn’t seen her boyfriend in more than three months. She greeted his family respectfully, and played the polite, friendly girlfriend for about twenty minutes. Then she explained quietly to him that if he didn’t take her to his bedroom immediately, she was going to jump him in front of everyone — even his greasy old uncle! The boyfriend, (who apparently has a bit more self-control than Sophie), laughed and hugged her and told her that “the family tradition is to always make cookies” on Christmas Eve. Well, you can imagine.
Sophie shook her fist silently at whichever angry god had cursed her with a cookie-baking boyfriend, then sighed and started chopping nuts (for the cookies). After about six hours, the cookie-baking-Croatian-torture seemed to be about finished. Her boyfriend was looking quite sexy in his flour-covered apron, so they found a chance to scurry up the stairs to his bedroom. Thinking they finally had the house to themselves, they started to tear off clothes with an eagerness only jetlag and men in aprons can conjure up. Just as her shirt flew off her head, his Grandmother let out a wail of disgust from the corner. She was in his bedroom surfing the Internet with his laptop, and seemed about as shocked as they were to have her supposed solitude ruined. Needless to say, this Granny-encounter sort of killed the mood.
Not being one to be topped in the realm of holiday sex-stories, I offered my own experience as salve for her embarrassment: my Dutch boyfriend and I spent the holidays with my American family. Wait, let me clarify that: my Dutch boyfriend and I spent the holidays with my Catholic, conservative, slightly-crazed American family.
Christmas day came and went in the usual flurry of wrapping paper, too much food and too many grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles…. By this time, drunk on good wine, I was trying my best to send telepathic messages about going upstairs and frolicking to my boyfriend ‘K.’ from across the turkey carcass. “What’s wrong with you?” my loving sister asked in reference to my squinted eyes. “You look like you’re trying to fart.”
When it came time for the post-feast walk, I volunteered the two of us to “stay and clean up.” K. looked at me like I was crazy, but agreed to stay behind. We waved off everyone, then I grabbed his hand and we flew upstairs. About five minutes later we came down to clean things up as promised, little smiles of self-congratulations on our faces.
Just below my old bedroom however is the living room. This room is usually empty, because it’s more formal, but when my Grandmother visits she likes to stake out one of the big chairs and scatter things like needlepoint, reading glasses and teacups around the border of her territory. It was with horror that we now saw her, enthroned amid this geriatric paraphernalia, shooting daggers from her eyes at the two of us. With metal prongs of disapproval piercing our hearts, we stood open-mouthed, staring back at her in utter embarrassment. Ok, well, I was staring back in utter embarrassment — K. was whistling Christmas carols.
There was nothing to say. “Maybe she didn’t hear anything,” I whispered to K. in the kitchen, half-hoping, half-wishing, half-offering to give up my first-born-child for this to be true! K. looked at me like I was drooling or something and shrugged his shoulders. He winked at me, continued whistling, and started washing dishes.
When the coast was clear we staged an experiment. K. went up to the bedroom and started bouncing on the mattress. I sat downstairs in my Grandmother’s chair and tried to ignore the swinging chandelier, falling plaster and thumping ceiling. The little grains of hope that had started to take root in my deluded mind exploded like so many tiny bombs of guilt. There was no use. My Grandmother, my sweet, widowed, Catholic, probably-a-virgin-except-somehow-my-mom-is-here Grandmother had heard everything! In fact, she probably even got a good dusting of plaster on the innocent pages of her Sudoku.
We felt dirty. Sophie felt dirty. Her boyfriend would’ve felt dirty, but apparently he couldn’t get his sweater off his head and missed the whole thing. This is worse than the time your housemate discovered you in a compromising position on the kitchen floor. This is worse than the time the security guard found your friends in the back of an old SUV. This is worse, worse, worse because Grandmothers make you feel so… naughty.
Two days later we left for New York City and the first thing we did was stop at a motel thirty miles outside my parents’ city. The beautiful feeling of guilt-free sinning washed over us like the pure rain of forgiveness. The Grandmothers of the world would not have been proud.
Dorthy Parker, MSc Architecture, is from the United States. Her next column will be published in Delta 09. onbezorgd@gmail.com.
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