By Jeremy Rose
(BENTON, Ky.) – I stood back and admired the unadorned aluminum pole in the corner of our living room. Gleaming. Majestic. Perfect.
“Dad, why couldn’t we just have a normal Christmas tree?” Talan asked, giving the pole the kind of look that only a fourteen-year-old can muster—like I’d personally insulted him by existing.
“Because, son,” I said, adjusting my reading glasses with what I hoped was theatrical flair, “Festivus is about tradition. A Festivus for the rest of us!”
“A Festivus for the rest of us!” Seven-year-old Kelan echoed enthusiastically. My boy had no idea what it meant, but his energy was exactly what this holiday needed.
Brandy emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron she’d made herself that read “I’m Only Here for the Airing of Grievances.” I should have taken this as a warning sign.
“The meatloaf is ready,” she announced. “And by meatloaf, I mean I followed the recipe exactly as written, unlike someone who tried to ‘improve’ my pot roast last week with sriracha and cottage cheese.”
“Hold on now—the Airing of Grievances doesn’t start until after dinner, Bran,” I protested. It had been a very innovative flavor combination, for the record.
“I’m just warming up.”
The doorbell rang, and Kelan sprinted to answer it. I’d invited our friend Sherri York and her son Hunter (our trivia partners) to join us, figuring more people meant more festive. Sherri stood on the porch holding a covered dish, while Hunter carried a six-pack of Hamm’s Beer, you know, the brew from “the land of sky blue waters” and wore an expression of deep confusion.
“We brought green bean casserole,” Sherri said cheerfully. “And Hunter brought… whatever that is.”
“It’s, well…you know, the brew from “the land of sky blue waters”,” Hunter explained. “It’s made in Minnesota!”
“Of course it is,” Talan muttered.
I gathered everyone around our dinner table, which Brandy had set with mismatched plates because, as she explained, “Festivus isn’t about materialism or conformity.”
“I thought that was just because our good dishes are still in boxes in the garage from when we moved,” Talan said.
“That too,” Brandy admitted.
I stood at the head of the table—my rightful place as patriarch and Festivus host—and tapped my water glass with a spoon. “Welcome, everyone, to the Rose Family Festivus celebration of 2018. Before we eat, I’d like to—”
“Can we skip to the Feats of Strength?” Kelan interrupted, flexing his little arms. “I’ve been practicing!”
“No, buddy, we have to do things in order. First, the meal. Then the Airing of Grievances. Then the Feats of Strength.”
“Are we really doing the Airing of Grievances?” Hunter whispered to his mother, clearly nervous.
“I think we’re about to find out,” Sherri whispered back.
Dinner went reasonably well, I thought. Sure, Kelan insisted on eating the #9 from McDonald’s, and Hunter described his beer’s “notes of pine and existential dread” for what felt like an hour, and Brandy confiscated Talan’s phone with ninja-like efficiency when she caught him playing a game instead of eating and participating in the meal. But overall? Successful.
Finally, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived. I stood again, spreading my arms wide. “And now, the Airing of Grievances! I’ve got a lot of problems with you people, and now you’re gonna hear about it!”
Brandy sat up straighter. I realized too late that I’d created a monster.
“Jeremy,” she began, locking eyes with me, “I have a grievance. You’ve been leaving your toenail clippings on the bathroom counter for three months. Three. Months.”
“I’m collecting them for a science experiment with Kelan!” I protested. This was completely legitimate.
“We were gonna see how much they weigh,” Kelan added helpfully.
“That doesn’t make it better!” Brandy continued. “And another thing—”
“Wait, wait—it’s supposed to go around the table,” I said, trying to regain control of my own holiday.
Sherri shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, I don’t really have any—”
“You posted fourteen pictures of Lucy on Facebook last week!” Brandy pointed at her. “Fourteen! We get it—your dog has an underbite!”
“He was wearing a sweater!” Sherri gasped, looking genuinely offended. “Multiple sweaters! It was a photo essay!”
“I got one!” Kelan shouted, standing on his chair. “Talan won’t let me play Fortnite with him and his friends because he says I’m ‘cringe’!”
“You are cringe,” Talan shot back. “You do the floss dance unironically!”
“Boys—” I tried to restore order, but the Festivus train had left the station.
“And Dad,” Talan continued, turning to me with the merciless precision of a heat-seeking missile, “you keep trying to be cool by using slang wrong. Yesterday you said my shoes were ‘totally fire lit, fam’ and Mom’s book club heard you.”
My face went hot. “I was being supportive!” Those shoes were fire lit!
Hunter raised his hand tentatively. “Can visitors do grievances? Because I’m unclear why I was invited to this.”
“You were invited because your mother said you never leave the house!” Brandy announced.
“Mom!” Hunter looked mortified.
“It’s true! You graduated college six months ago and outside of finding every excuse to golf or play trivia, you’ve been ‘finding yourself’ in my basement ever since!”
The Airing of Grievances spiraled beautifully out of control for another twenty minutes. They complained about my refusal to admit I needed stronger reading glasses (I see fine, thank you), Kelan’s habit of hiding vegetables in the houseplants (which explained why the ficus died), and Talan’s month-long protest against family dinners that he called “oppressive.” He still showed up to every dinner, but wore all black and sighed dramatically the entire time.
By the time everyone had aired at least three grievances, Sherri was stress-eating green bean casserole directly from the serving dish, and I decided it was time to move things along.
“And now,” I announced, standing with as much dignity as I could muster, “the Festivus celebration cannot end until the head of household is pinned in the Feats of Strength!”
“I’ll do it!” Kelan jumped up, flexing again.
“Kelan, you weigh forty-five pounds.”
“Forty-seven!”
Hunter stood up, cracking his knuckles. “I wrestled in high school.”
“It was JV,” Sherri added, not helping.
“Still counts, Mom!”
What followed was… well, let’s just say it was more chaotic than I’d anticipated. We wrestled from the dining room to the living room. The aluminum pole nearly became an invasion (if you will). Eventually, Hunter using the tinsel that he had found which is a clear distraction and aggressive foul, put me in what he called “a modified half-nelson” and what felt like aggressive hugging, and I had no choice but to tap out.
My shoulder hurt. My pride hurt more. I called for a referee’s judgement on his, in my opinion, illegal move. No one answered.
As the Yorks prepared to leave, coats on and casserole dish retrieved, Sherri turned to Brandy. “Same time next year?”
I watched my wife survey the overturned chairs, the dented aluminum pole, and me icing my shoulder on the couch while Kelan performed his “victory dance.”
“Absolutely,” Brandy said. “But you’re bringing dessert. And maybe ease up on the Lucy posts.”
“Deal.”
As the door closed behind our guests, I noticed something miraculous. Talan was smiling—not his usual smirk, but an actual smile.
“This was actually kind of fun,” he admitted.
“See?” I said from my prone position on the couch. “Festivus miracle!”
“That’s not a thing, Dad.”
“It is now!”
And somewhere in the corner, the aluminum pole stood tall, unbowed, waiting for next year’s grievances.
I couldn’t wait.
And just to think, if Frank hadn’t been trying to buy that doll all those years ago, December 23rd would just be Christmas Eve Eve.
