Thanksgiving was always my family’s holiday.  Whether my parents were taking us on a cruise, or we were just at my house or my sister’s house,  it was the perfect day to celebrate the people for whom I was the most thankful – my family.  This is not to say that Jay made it easy for me; in fact, he wielded the proverbial sword the most confidently and skillfully on Thanksgiving.  You see, the more I wanted something, and the more something mattered to me, the more circles of Dante’s Inferno I needed to visit beforehand.

In an earlier blog entry, I mentioned the Thanksgiving when I was pregnant with Zachary.  On my parents’ dime, we headed to South Florida, graciously including Jay’s family in our Thanksgiving plans.  Against my mom’s better judgment, she acquiesced when Carol, Jay’s mom, picked the place to go for Thanksgiving dinner.  Perhaps Carol was miffed that we didn’t want to have dinner at her place, or perhaps she was just being the instigator she always was when we saw her (which was infrequently), but a strip club by night serving an All-You-Can-Eat buffet by day was not exactly where I pictured my 4-year-old, my 17-month-old, or my pregnant self paying homage to the Pilgrims.

In addition to my folks, Jay’s folks, and the 4 of us, Jay’s grandmother and brother were also there.  His grandmother didn’t even acknowledge me at my wedding (sometimes just a small vignette is enough to speak volumes), and his brother, poor thing, never experienced his testicles dropping.  Joel lived in Orlando and, much like his town’s beloved Mickey, he, too, spoke in a very high-pitched voice.  I actually once asked him about it, and he told me that Carol told him there was nothing wrong with him and he didn’t need to see a doctor.  Be assured that her dismissal of anything wrong was not because she was the typical Bev Goldberg Jewish mother and that her Schmoopie was perfect the way he was; she just didn’t give a shit.

Dinner was inedible and uncomfortable, though not cheap.  My poor Marissa ate only cookies that my mother found for her in a little section of the place that sold baked goods.  Rebecca, thank God, was still enamored of her bottle, so at least she had some nourishment.  My parents were horrified by the place, but not as horrified as when Jay’s father, Gerry, took the bill and announced to my father, “I’ll pay for myself, Carol, my mother, Joel, and Jay, and Al, you can pay for you, Bobby, Marla (that’s me), and the girls.”  That’s how he saw things, as us versus them, and clearly my girls and I weren’t a part of his family.  My parents flew us down, included them in our plans, put up with Carol’s acerbic tongue, and gave them the opportunity to see their grandchildren.  You see, had we not come down, we would not have seen them until my son was born two and a half months later (that’s a story for another day).

As we were staying at my parents’ place, we had driven to the restaurant with my parents.  My dad, a volatile turned docile man, was enjoying his grandchildren and his retirement so much that it was rare to see him lose it.  But, when Gerry Jaffe poked the dormant bear that day by making it abundantly clear who he saw and didn’t see as his family, Alan Starsky started to spit fire.  Justifiably angry, my dad let so much pour out that had been dormant, including the way Jay’s parents had treated me through the years.

Suffice it to say that Jay Jaffe welcomed me into an even lower circle of Dante’s Inferno after that car ride, as he swore through gritted teeth that we would never spend another Thanksgiving with my family …