It's Christmas time, and UPS is here. Again.
I open the door, and drag in an obscenely large, cold, cardboard box.
On it reads:
To: Dawn, Justin and Derek
From: Dad
Derek: "Ooooooooooooooooh mommy what is it???!!!!"
Me: "It's a ham".
Derek: "How do you know?"
Me: "It's a ham."
Derek: "Yeah but you didn't even open …"
Me: "It's a ham. A very large, ham Derek. I get it every year. This year I'm strapping it into a baby seat and driving it to the needy. I hear they're in desperate need of warm blankets and ham."
Derek: "Cant we just open it and see if…"
Me: "Ham, Derek … Ham."
Every Christmas, without fail, my dad sends me a ham. And I'm not really sure I should say "without fail", because between me and you, no one eats it. Generally, we graffiti it with expletives and submit it to the Museum of Modern Art.
Two months after the invasion of the Thanksgiving turkey, as we're still picking out turkey from between our teeth … here comes our new roommate, the Here -Til '-August, Christmas ham.
It's a ham so colossal, that upon its arrival, warrants me to begrudgingly rearrange the contents of my already packed refrigerator, like a failed attempt at a Rubix cube, just for it to eventually not fit in.
Where the hell is The Hamburgler when you need him.
Funny thing is, I really want to appreciate this ham. I really do. And I think I did…the first 11-14 years I received it. But for starters, I don't eat ham. Oddly enough, for some reason, receiving this poor innocent ham every year like clockwork, has touched a nerve so deep that I actually considered throwing it out.
But after looking at it again and thinking..."Where's the wheels?"…I realized I'd probably end up throwing my back out instead.
Plan B: Maybe I can just shot-put it into the woods. After all, raccoons need Christmas gifts, too. Rabies alone isn't festive enough.
Ham Hostility. That's even a new one for me. So where is it coming from.
Well, hard to believe something like a Priority Mail Nueske's Ham can prompt some type of poignant discovery in myself, but so it had.
I realized I wasn't mad at the actual ham at all.
That would be psychotic. And just because I yell at and flip off hams doesn't make me psychotic.
Turns out that it's not that I don't appreciate the gesture of cute little dead farm animals being sent to my front door, it's not that at all.
It's more because … (organ sound) … I'm mad that my dad doesn't call me enough to know that I don't eat ham. At least not the amount of ham that by code requires me to start working on blueprints for a guest room addition.
Instead of a call, I get a giant, impersonal ham. His way of letting me know that he, unlike the ham, is not dead.
Upon that discovery, unlike the Grinch on Christmas Eve whose heart grew 3x too big,
like a pair of all cotton underwear in the dryer for too long, my heart shrank 10x too small.
Mad at the ham because I never see my dad?
No. The ham represents the dad I never see.
Genius.
No. The ham represents the dad I never see.
Genius.
A strangely epiphanic moment, all whilst the backdrop of air hung heavily with the scent of pork.
I'd so much rather see my dad than this stupid, hulking ham which he's obviously under the impression that I need in my life more than a dad.
Could it be that he sends it because it's metaphoric of baby Jesus being born, and will be with me eternally? Maybe that's why it's swaddled with sections of cotton gauze. Although that could be cheesecloth for basting. I'm not really sure. But whatever the case, like Christ, it's certainly omnipotent.
I could even possibly forgive the ham if it were delicious, and not so dry from flying around from state to state, accumulating frequent flyer miles in the cargo section of an airplane. But as it stands, it's so dry that instead of kindling, I use it to start a nice ambient fire on Christmas day. When my dad asks me if I roasted the ham, I just say "yes". So it works out nicely.
And God Forbid I should be so blunt as to say:
…"Dad. Really. You need to stop with the ham."
I don't hear from him now, can't imagine if I insulted his annual ham. That'd be grounds for 1 phone call a year, versus the current symmetrical 2.
So it ends up looking more like this:
Me: "Oh hi dad, thanks so much for the ham! I told you last year, and the year before, and the year before that, that you really, really, did NOT need to be so generous and send us a 46 lb. ham again. But thank you. So nice of you. And since you did, I'll make sure to make some ham and cheese quiches, and split pea with ham soup, ham sandwiches for the kids, and green eggs and ham. Thank you!"***
*** Lies. I cut it into cubes and divvied it up to my dogs for the past 3 years. But I was thinking of you the whole time.
Last year, since the ham was caked in 30 lbs. of ice, after the painful workout I endured from dragging it in, I needed to rest my feet on something so I used the ham for 4 months as a biodegradable ottoman.
I always wanted an ottoman for Christmas.
This year, I call my dad…
Me: " Hi dad it's Dawn. Omg when was the last time you called me, whoops! Meant, 'Merry Christmas', and thanks for sending the ham. I'm waiting for some friends to come over so they can help me lift it onto the counter."
Dad: "Oh good…it got there already? "
Me: " Yeah Dad, asteroids travel pretty fast … Dad that ham is so big, it'd be the first thing I'd throw off a sinking ship. Yep, got here yesterday! I'd put it on the phone to say hi, but it's in the middle of holding up my house at the moment."
Me: "Dad, seriously. I love you, but next year, save yourself some money…that's a LOT of ham. Unless I cut it up and give it to all my dogs, which I'd never do, there's no way we can all eat this before it goes bad."
Dad: "That's OK. The kids I'm sure will eat it."
Me: "Dad, it's almost impossible for them to eat it while I'm resting my feet on it."
Okay fine.
I know he means well. I'm over it. I got it off my chest. I'm not mad at him nor his ham, nor Mr. Nueske's entire family anymore.
I'll just continue coming up with new inventions for it every year, as well as continue to jam it into the fridge, muscle the refrigerator door closed, and walk away reprehending it under my breath like I would a kid sent to his room for peeing into a wall socket.
Moral of the Story:
Ham is not a replacement for real love or genuine communication during the holidays.
Chocolate dipped cookies and Frosted Cakes are.
Get with it dad.
Merry Christmas
&
Bah Hambug.
:)
~dawn
