THE JEW THAT RUINED CHRISTMAS

My first Christmas was nearly a decade ago, but it is a trip worth reliving as part of the healing process. I was still courting my then girlfriend, now wife, and was going to her house for Christmas after only two months of dating. This would be my first encounter with her family and friends, and I wanted to make a good impression.

We spent the majority of Christmas Eve eating, drinking and watching a burning Yule Log on the TV. I was used to eating Chinese food and recounting the nailing of Jesus to the cross with my fellow Zionists, so this was a nice change. I was trying my best to keep up with the family binge drinking that included eggnog, gin martinis and Busch Light using her grandmother as the pace car. I significantly underestimated the voracity with which small town folk consume alcohol, but I wanted to be accepted at any cost. I was getting very drunk, very quick. As I started to take a family poll to see if everyone thought Jesus was black, my girl stepped in to save me and took me out for a night on the town.

My wife’s home is a small town called Nelson located in northern Illinois, population: 163. Not to be confused with Nelson:

or Nelson:



...both of whom you could probably find in town, which consists of one bar next to a set of railroad tracks, appropriately named "The Railside". After a quick lesson in drunk driving I made it through the vast cornfields to the bar and stumbled in gracefully.

As soon as I entered the bar, it became clear that this was the first time anyone had seen a Jew in Nelson. The bar went from clamor to silence, as all eyes were on me. I felt like the Sheriff from Blazing Saddles strolling into town. My temulency was at a 20, and I walked up to the bar to order a round of drinks when the bartender snickered “Hey, looks like an EYEtalian just rolled into town, heh!” I couldn't help but giggle and decided to play along. I replied “due Peroni' s, per favore”. The bartender stared me down. I am certain this was the same look the SS gave my people just before escorting us to the showers. I gave a nervous laugh and corrected myself, “Two beers please.” The bartender replied, “$3, señor” and I threw down an Alexander Hamilton and told him to keep the change.

As high school friends started to pour in the bar, I was introduced around and the group quickly started to take to me. They were offering me the spoils of Nelson (Kodiak chewing tobacco and duck jerky -- yes, there is such a thing) and even took me out for a roll in the pickup truck to smoke pot in the cornfields. Who knew pickup trucks have a backseat? I was winning over the crowd, but I was belligerent.




Duck jerky.

I openly admitted Christmas was the best holiday ever and that I wished I had grown up in Nelson, IL! The bar raised their beers and got rowdy at the east coast props. In my mind, they were all chanting "Gooble Gobble we accept him!” The rest of the night, the details were hazy, but by 5:00 am we had stumbled home. I was very pleased with myself that I had made it through the night alive and was ready for some much needed shuteye.

At 7:30 am my girlfriend started to shake me frantically saying, “It’s time, it’s time, get up, get up!” I didn't know what that meant, but knew I was still drunk, high and swaying like Mohammed Ali in the 12th round. This was not going to end well.


Breakfast.

The family sat gathered around the tree with presents scattered around the living room floor. Her mother placed a hot plate of ham, eggs and venison sausage on my lap and handed me a Mimosa. My two-year-old nephew sat with the huge grin on his face and looked adorable in his Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer hooded onesie.

As I looked around at the beautiful family with all the presents, glowing tree and bountiful meal, I began to panic. I felt a rumble in my stomach and was overwhelmed with the smell of venison, egg and the constant burping of gin, eggnog, dip and Busch Light. I had a look on my face like I had something to say, and everyone watched intently as I took in my first Christmas morning. What the family didn’t know was that the look on my face was the inevitability of me ruining the holiday.

I couldn't contain myself. I projectile vomited right then and there, all over the nice carpet and the gifts on the floor in front of me. My nephew began to cry hysterically and the entire family looked as if I had killed Santa himself. Grandma sat on the couch in the back and laughed uncontrollably. I was mortified. My girlfriend started crying, and I just sat there with my head in my hands in shame as her mother ran to get paper towels and help clean up the mess. True story.


Vomiting. (As shown in the movie Stand By Me, which itself makes some people want to puke.)

Yes, I could have told the story about the Chanukah of 1989 when my father’s hairpiece fell onto the Menorah. Or the Chanukah of 86’ where my racist lush of an uncle proclaimed he was Judah Macccabee and chased the housekeeper around saying he would never bow to the will of Antiochus, but let's face it, Christmas is the cooler of the two holidays. I now look forward to my annual mecca to Nelson and the Railside tavern.