Where to spend Christmas?

E has said that he’d like to visit his folks this year. That’s fair, and I can understand that. His brother, who I have never met, will be there. I should be there as well. I should meet his brother, even though, from E’s accounts, he’s not exactly a fun guy. Kind of like my own brother, but without the communication or charisma or sense of humour. His bro is doing his PhD in Religious Studies in…Windsor? Waterloo? I’m a bad girlfriend; I don’t even know where the guy is. But whatever. All this is second to my own little convoluted mind. (Why? It’s all about me, me me!)

I’ve never had Christmas away from Vancouver. I recognise that it was immensely unhealthy for all involved when I stepped into my dead mother’s shoes and assumed many of her Christmas responsiblilities. I should have petitioned that my father take us to Cuba, but I am a sorry-assed, weak-willed little traditionalist, and so was overwhelmed. Traditions are comforting. They enfold us with the (sometimes choke-making) traditions of the past, like an old duvet that holds the ghosts of farts that were atrociously pungent, but are now only faintly unpleasant shadows of ther former fragrance. And my family is nothing, if not traditional.

So, am I a terrible daughter if I abandon my father and maybe my brother and sister-in-law (but maybe not, as they’re encouraged to stay on their respective campuses and go to conferences between Christmas and New Years that may have a serious impact on when and where they gain Professorial employment when they’re done their PhD’s) for the Holidays?

No idea.

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