The lunch date

Our first date happened almost seven years ago and I wasn’t attracted to him then. I was young, bored and I liked the way he complimented me with a serious expression, refusing any protests, feeble or otherwise. I let him take me out, I let him kiss me, and I let him buy me things to the point of being ridiculous.

But eventually I got tired of trying to like him “that way”, of letting him touch me when I didn’t really want him to, and stopped returning his calls. I found someone else and conveniently forgot about him, until his name would show up randomly on my phone or I ran into him in town.

Most of the time I ignored his texts and calls, saying only the bare minimum to be polite. I would wave and hurry away when I saw him out. But every now and then, he would catch me in a rough patch. Whether it was due to boredom, loneliness or deflated ego, he’d happily step in and boost me back up. And with an attitude that said I was clearly doing him a favor, I’d let him.

When I didn’t need him, he irritated me. I hated that he always seemed to show up everywhere I went. I felt like he was stalking me at times, but really, if I’m going to be honest (and this is all going to be brutally honest), he wasn’t doing anything that I didn’t allow him to. I never would have admitted it to myself, or anyone else, back then...but I wanted him on the back burner, just in case. Telling him off might have meant alienating him completely. And too, he was so fucking nice that I just couldn’t bring myself to really be mean to him.

Except now I realize that I was cruel to him all along. I knew he was crazy about me, possibly even in love with me. And instead of calling time of death, I let him repeatedly shock our relationship back to life. Let him hopefully watch a bunch of feeble lines on a monitor and wait for them to get bigger, all the while knowing what he didn’t – my heart would never work properly for him.

Seven months ago I made a stab at behaving like a decent human being. I had feelings for someone and, no matter how at odds their words and actions sometimes were, I knew they didn’t feel quite the same way about me. Because they never came right out and said “I don’t want you”, I kept thinking “it could happen”. But it didn’t, it won’t, and I knew there was a distinct possibility they were doing to me what I’d done to him, whether they realized it or not.

So when I received a message asking me to hang out and, as usual, telling me how wonderful I was...I finally said what should have been said ages ago. I told him that he wanted to be more than friends, he always had, and I didn’t. I told him that I couldn’t hang out with him unless he was prepared to accept that. I was proud of myself for not dicking around, for saying it in what I thought was a decent, but clear way. He responded that he was sorry for making me uncomfortable, which made me feel like an ass, and then he promptly disappeared.

I thought about him for awhile after that. I wondered how he was doing and if he would come back around and try to be my friend, or if maybe that was something he’d never be able to do. I crawled even farther up my own ass, and wondered how long it would take him to get over me. How much time was I worth? But after a few months without a word or a glimpse of him, I forgot to wonder.

Then a few weeks ago I was driving home. I’d had one of the toughest, most emotionally charged days of my life. I don’t cry that often, but when I do it’s...volatile. I’d been blubbering for most of the hour it takes me to drive home when my phone went off. It was a message from him. He’d passed me, seen what a spectacle I was, and wanted to make sure I was alright.

Of course that set me off more, but I replied that I was okay. Then he said, after seven months of silence, “I always hoped it would work out between us. I’m still crazy about you.” Etcetera, I’m gorgeous, etcetera, he misses me.

And instead of saying “don’t” or “I’m sorry”, I latched onto those words like a life raft. I said “thank you” and sent a smiley face, knowing it wasn’t a good idea.

“Why didn’t it work out?”, he asked.

“I don’t know”, I said, all the while hating myself. I was feeling rotten and I wanted someone to make me feel better and I knew that, with a few noncommittal responses, he’d do just that.

He comforted me, asked me out to lunch, and I accepted. I was back on the vicious cycle, attempting to justify my behavior like I always had before – by telling myself that maybe this was it for me, maybe I was supposed to be with someone that loved me more than I loved them. He was a great guy, with a lot of qualities just screaming “settling down material”. Maybe I’d read too many romance novels and was overlooking what was supposed to be my chance, while I waited for a passion that didn’t exist. But I knew better – even though I was stepping back into the ring, this time I was completely aware of what I was doing. I was going to sucker punch him, and apparently no amount of self-loathing was going to change that. If I was cruel before, I was downright sadistic now.

Two days ago he showed up right on time for our lunch date. Everyone else was gone when I let him in the front door and he followed me back to my office. I was nervous, but it wasn’t the fluttery nervousness of a normal date. It was a nervousness born of knowing I was doing something wrong, and wondering if he’d call me out.

“You look nice”, he said.

I was surprised by how relaxed and casual he was and I forced myself to calm down too. He didn’t reach for my hand or my arm as we walked to the café, like I thought he would. He didn’t touch me at all.

I’d made jokes about getting a free lunch out of him, because that’s what I do...make terrible jokes. But when we arrived I waved away his protests and paid. I couldn’t have that on my conscious too. And apparently, buying him a club sandwich was supposed to make me feel better.

We sat down at a table by the window and we talked – about our kids, our jobs, and all manner of things we’d missed out on in the months we hadn’t spoken. I found myself laughing with him and feeling comfortable. He didn’t question me or compliment me, he didn’t look at me like he wanted to peel my skin off and wear it like a wetsuit. It felt normal – like two friends having lunch.

On the walk back I looked at his face, relaxed and confident, and I wondered if he knew. I wondered if he thought he was “wearing me down” or if, like me, he simply couldn’t stop himself from gravitating to what he knew would never work, out of some unfulfilled need.

In the lobby of my building he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. “That was nice”, he said. And I agreed, smiling and waving as he walked out the double doors and into the parking garage.

But my smile didn’t stick around very long. I’d no sooner sat down at my desk when I thought, “Wait...what just happened? Is he over me? He’s never that casual. What was wrong with him?” I knew I was being an egotistical asshole, but I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t fawn all over me like he normally would.

Two hours later I received a text message that said, “Thanks for lunch, had a great time. You looked stunning, as always.”

That was more like what I’d come to expect. And because my vanity knows no bounds, I grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I’d be willing to wager that I’ll hear from him again soon, and I’m not really sure what will happen. After exploring every unflattering angle of my behavior, and branding myself with labels I hate, yet completely deserve (like needy and cruel), I know something has to give. I know that, no matter how many times I may try to pretend or convince myself otherwise, he isn’t what I’m looking for. Now I just have to figure out if I’m the kind of person that needs something so badly, they take what isn’t rightfully theirs. I hope not. I hope I can find the courage to push him away for good and learn how to be truly alone, because maybe that’s all fate, God, or whatever decides these matters, is waiting for.

Advice

Last Friday, amid my sunshiny errands and trampoline jumping, I was dealing with family drama. It started around 9 that morning when I was sitting in my underwear in the living room, radio blasting, repainting my toenails blood red.

“I said what what in the butt”, sang my phone. Muting the radio, I picked up what I knew would be a long, repetitive call. It was my stepmom.

“Your dad has lost it”, she said immediately.

“I wasn’t aware he ever had it”, I replied. “What’s up?”

“I need advice. Tell me what to do.”

What followed was, as expected, a long winded account of all the things daddy dearest had been up to recently. Some of it I already knew, like the story about him throwing an empty bottle of Crown Royal at her on Valentine’s Day. Who needs candy and flowers when you can give your woman something really passionate...like a concussion?

And some of it was breaking news, like the fact that he was, supposedly, on his way to get a U-Haul to start packing up his things. He was going to take the dog, the horses, and the Harley and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it, so there! Dad has a flare for the dramatic and it was apparent that she knew, as well as I did, that he was talking out of his ass and wouldn’t be packing anything.

She wanted to know if she should get a restraining order or if she should wait things out, see if she could get him to leave on a mini vacation to give them some time apart. See, they’re in the middle of a lawsuit with his insurance company and, according to the lawyer, if she filed a restraining order it could jeopardize that.

I heard about how much he’d been drinking and the nasty names he’d called her. I heard “your mother is a saint to have put up with that man for over 20 years” and all the other catch phrases she’s adopted since her knight in shining armor turned out to be exactly what we all tried to tell her he would. I mmmed and ahhhed, and said the same things I always say – that she should have left him when he swayed down the aisle to marry her holding a bottle in a brown paper bag, that he’s crazy, and that no matter what happens between them, she’ll still be my family.

“I’m on my way to work to tell my boss I’m taking the day off to deal with this shit”, she said. “Will you call and talk to him? See what he has to say? But don’t tell him you talked to me.”

I wasn’t the first time she’d asked me to do something like that. I’d tried to explain to her before that questioning dad is an exercise in futility – the man lies so much that he wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him upside the head with a Crown bottle. But I agreed to do it anyway.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey Al, what’s going on?” I could hear the suspicion in his voice already, and I hadn’t even spoken yet.

“Hey dad. Nothing, just enjoying my day off. What are you up to?”

“You been talking to that bitch, huh? She called you didn’t she?”

Ah, paranoia! Signature scent of the guilty.

“No, why would she be calling me? What have you done?”

“I’m leaving. I’m on my way now to get a U-Haul.”

“Ok...why? What are you going to put in the U-Haul, dad?”

“Because she’s a crazy fucking bitch. All my shit, that’s what!”

I was relatively sure that whatever belongings he had in the house wouldn’t fill a large suitcase, much less a truck. If he actually followed through with that threat, he’d probably rob her blind.

He went on to say that he tried to get her to go to counseling (lie), but she’d refused (lie). He was tired of supporting her (lie, the only thing he supports are his habits) and she was turning everyone against him (lie, everyone was already sick of him ages before she came along). And when I expressed my doubt at those statements, and he sensed that he was getting no sympathy from me, he rushed off the phone.

Yeah, I totally called that one.

I rang my stepmom back and relayed the conversation, then attempted to wash my hands of the matter. “I’ve got to get in the shower. I’ve got to get going...errands and stuff.”

Unfortunately it didn’t work that way. Though I didn’t speak to dad again, my stepmom called me with regular reports all day long. She was getting the restraining order, she wasn’t. She was filing for divorce, she wasn’t. She was going to have him removed from the house (because, surprise surprise, apparently he never did go get that U-Haul), she wasn’t. As usual, her indecision was giving me whiplash.

“I don’t understand you women”, I shouted at one point.

That night I passed on all Intel to mom and told her she could handle it from there. She and my stepmom have become quite the pair, gossiping and texting about all of dad’s indiscretions, united by the one thing that initially had them hating each other’s guts.

And so the weekend rolled on. I spent a lot of time doing nothing and every day I put off the phone call I should have made to my stepmom. I heard about the latest happenings from mom, so I knew she was alright. I just didn’t want to deal with the repetition of it all. I hate it when someone asks me the same question over and over. “What should I do?”

The buzz was that she’d spent Friday and Saturday night in a hotel, choosing to leave him in her house rather than deal with him. No one seemed to know what he was up to.

On Monday I was home alone in my pajamas, writing and drinking my weight in coffee. After spending the majority of the day on the porch with the laptop, I suddenly decided my room needed to be cleaned. And around 6:30 when everyone came home dragging the debris of their day, I was still going.

I was unloading the dishwasher, methodically drying cups and glaring at the pile of papers and purses they’d just stacked on my clean dining room table, when mom said quietly, so Leigha wouldn’t hear, “I need your advice.”

Surprised, I simply nodded and finished what I was doing. After I’d seated Hannah at the table with her dinner, I went to mom’s room. She was lying on her bed flipping through a Tupperware magazine.

“Please, tell me you aren’t going to buy more of that shit”, I said, flopping down beside her on my stomach and putting my chin in my hands. “We can’t shut the cabinet now.”

“I’m just looking”, she said, using the tone I call her “little girl voice”, a dead giveaway that she’s lying through her teeth.

I rolled my eyes. “Uh huh. So, what’s the issue?”

“Well...your father called me this morning.” She always says “your father”, like other people say “your asshole dog” or “your snot-nosed brat”. When she talks to me about him, its half gossiping with a girlfriend and half accusation...like it’s my fault that she married him. Which I suppose it kind of was, if you go around blaming fetuses.

I sighed and waited on her to continue. Mom loves a bit of drama with her stories; she’s very good at pauses.

“He told me that he was on his way here from Oklahoma, in Tennessee somewhere, and wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to have him locked up for back child support. (Pause)But! Your stepmom called me and guess what?! (Pause. Pause.)That bastard left two days ago! He’s already here somewhere, hiding out!”

I wasn’t surprised. If he had a signature move, other than breaking shit, it was lying in relation to his whereabouts.

“So”, she continued, “he says that he’ll give me some money on Wednesday if I don’t have him picked up. But I’m fed up with the shit. What do you think I should do? Should I have him arrested anyway?”

I sighed again. She didn’t really want my advice, just like my stepmom hadn’t wanted it either. They wanted to vent, they wanted me to say all the asshole things they couldn’t, and then they wanted to go about business as usual.

“Fine”, I said sitting up. “Supposedly he is getting paid while he’s here, so, if I were you, I’d tell him to have me the money he promised by Wednesday. Then, after I got the money, I’d have him arrested anyway.”

She looked at me, clearly conflicted. “I just don’t know. He says he’ll roll into town early tomorrow morning and swing by to see you girls. He’s still pretending he isn’t here.”

I shook my head and got up. “Well, I suppose you ought to figure it out. But I’m willing to bet you that he’ll be at our door before we go to bed tonight.”

“No, he’s too busy partying.”

I raised my eyebrows, because I can’t do just the one, and shrugged. “Whatever.”

At 10 o’clock on the dot I was sitting on the porch, wrapped up in my robe, reading. I heard a rumble and looked up. A truck with a motorcycle trailer on the back was inching its way down our gravel road, ridiculously attempting to be stealthy. It paused by the garden fence, on the last stretch of road visible before it would disappear around the corner of our house, leading to the driveway. The headlights cut through the dark and I knew he was sitting in the cab, watching me sitting in the chair, the overhead lights making our porch stand out like a theatre stage.

He inched forward and disappeared around the curve. I leaned back in my chair, knocked on the glass door, lit a cigarette and went back to my book, knowing even as I did that it was pointless. I was about to be bothered.

Mom poked her head out the door, responding to my loud rap on the glass. “Told you so”, I said without looking up from my book. I didn’t need to explain. She heard the rumble of the truck, immediately backing up my words.

“You get him out of here before he wakes up Ray”, she said, pulling at her nightshirt.

“He’s here to see Leigha, let her deal with it.”

She made a noise of disgust and turned to stomp off, but Leigha blocked the door. “Alyson, dad says for you to come outside. He wants to see you.”

I glared at her. “You go.”

“Come on”, she whined.

Both of them looked at me expectantly and I knew they weren’t going to leave me alone. In fact, if I didn’t go, he’d probably just come around and climb the porch steps. Resistance, as usual, was futile.

I got up and followed Leigha, defiantly carrying my lit cigarette with me through the house and out the other door. It was my last one.

And there he was, standing in the driveway in his Levi’s and a black pocket t-shirt covered by his signature button up denim, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his tattooed arms. His feet were planted so far apart that it looked comical. He’s rather short for a man and his stance and demeanor have always reminded me of a rooster. Work boots, ball cap, and a pair of black glasses with a lanyard wrapped around the back of his head completed the never changing ensemble.

“Hey Al”, he said, moving in to hug me. I gave him the sidearm hug, but it was more out of necessity than desire to stay away from him. We were both smoking, but of course he took it as a slight. “Oh, I see how it is”, he said, chuckling. I knew that chuckle and it wasn’t real. He told us that he’d be staying until after Papa’s wedding. On March 19th. A month. Fucking brilliant. I was happy that my poor stepmom was getting a break, but not if it meant a month at my own expense.

However, two days later (last night to be precise), things shifted again.

I was sitting at the patio table with Papa, dad, and my cousin Ashley. I’d come to pick up Hannah and ended up getting dragged into a discussion on my Aunt that ran away from home last week with thousands of dollars and ten cats in a bag. (It’s a long story.) That led into a discussion about vacations.

“I’m taking a vacation just for me, before I start school and get extra tied down for the next few years”, I said.

Dad looked at me in surprise. “You aren’t coming to Oklahoma this summer?”

I stared back at him like he’d lost his marbles. As far as I was concerned, the past week had been the beginning of the end of his marriage to my stepmom. It had never gotten so far as hotel stays and talk of restraining orders before.

“I was under the impression that ya’ll were done?”

He just looked baffled, like he had no idea what on earth I was talking about. Probably because he’d already managed to convince his self that none of it had ever happened. “We’re fine, she sent me a package of things I needed today. I’m going back to Oklahoma this weekend for a quick job.”

“I thought you were staying until the wedding?” I could barely keep the excitement out of my voice. If she was going to be dumb enough to take his ass back again, I wasn’t going to waste my time feeling sorry for her anymore. And I wouldn’t have to worry about him causing any drama here for the next month. Win/Win.

“I’ll be back before the wedding. She’s coming with me”, he said.

Later that night mom cornered me again. “It’s Wednesday and he still hasn’t given me the money. What do you think I should do?”

I’d had plenty of time to think about it by then and I’d decided that there was only one thing I could say to her, and to my stepmom, the next time they asked that question. I had my own vicious cycles to attend to and I was tired of being forced into theirs as well. The tentative relationship I have with him only works because I keep my distance, and I know better than to expect anything more than a load of trouble or a good laugh. I can’t make either one of them stop tiptoeing around him and grow a pair.

I grinned and shrugged. “I have no opinion about that.”

Family tradition

Every year without fail, starting the weekend after Thanksgiving, I get really excited about Christmas. With a family as large as mine, all four weeks leading up to the big day are packed with traditions that simply cannot be skipped, and in the beginning, I wouldn’t even dream of trying. I look forward to decorating and baking, shopping and parties. But inevitably, being a person that possesses very little patience and more than my fair share of egotism, the initial excitement begins to wane.

It all starts with the decorating of the house and the tree. The night before we put everything up, mom begins pouting in earnest. “I’ll have no part of it! It’s all a bunch of mess and I’d rather leave it all out in the building”, she says in a huff. Every year she refuses to participate and while we spend our morning hauling in tubs of ornaments, she stalks from the kitchen to her bedroom and back, complaining loudly about the clutter and butting into branch placement arguments.

The only part of the tree decorating tradition that she enjoys is the music. We crank up Barry Manilow’s Christmas album and sing like a chorus line of trannys drunk on eggnog. Our favorite is Baby it’s Cold Outside, but the CD must play in its entirety at least twice before we can switch to anything else. However, this year was only Ray’s second Christmas with us and he isn’t yet used to protocol. After only four or five Barry songs, he pitched an almighty fit to watch some football or basketball game. Of course he got his way, but by the time the game was over he’d heard enough bitching to last a life time and promptly disappeared into the woods to go hunting. He has yet to learn that fighting is an important part of the process.

Another issue that’s cropped up with our tree tradition is that I’ve become a bit anal about the theme. We have a plethora of ornaments in all shapes, sizes, and colors but in recent years, we’ve kept it color coded. Blue and silver has been the theme of choice for the past three years and, try as I might, I simply cannot have a mishmash of random ornaments. I like it uniform and clean; they have to match. My sister, Leigha, is on board, but the kid is not.

Most people would argue that Christmas trees are meant to be decorated by children and I, almost completely, agree. That’s why we bought Hannah her very own miniature tree for her bedroom, to massacre to her heart’s content. We still let her help decorate the big tree, but only with preapproved, matching ornaments. And when she starts whining that I’m not putting the hooks on fast enough or when she hangs everything together in one huge clump, I can feel my eye start to twitch. As a result, the excitement I felt when unloading the boxes hours before is almost completely gone and in its place is a special brand of irritation, reserved just for the holidays. The funny thing is, once everything is up, she could set off a bomb in the middle of it and I wouldn’t care. It’s the process that matters.

We have a wrapping tradition too. It’s quite simple: I like doing it and no one else does. So everyone piles their presents in the living room and I sit in my pajamas, with a cup of sweet tea (or liquor if it’s readily available) and a movie on the TV. And I trash the place. Scraps of paper, price tags and boxes fly everywhere. And at first I enjoy it, I really do. I love wrapping presents and stacking them under the tree. But no matter what, at least ½ to ¾ of the way through, I get angry that no one will help me and I mutter to myself about how I do everything and the rest of them are lazy bums! But, on the rare occasion that they decide to join in and help, I cringe while they wrap because they do such a piss poor job.

Last year we added the Elf tradition, but like most things that haven’t been in effect forever, it’s almost fallen by the wayside. We bought this book called “Elf on a Shelf” that comes with a tiny replica of the main character. Hannah named her elf Shefford and it’s his job to report back to Santa each night, telling him whether she’s been good or bad. Every morning when she wakes up he’s in a different spot, but she isn’t allowed to touch him or he loses his magic.

Last year, saying “Shefford is going to tell Santa” went a long way in helping with the whining and tantrums. This year...zilch. She’s reached an age where she’s realized that she can pretty much get away with murder and still receive a significant amount of loot on Christmas day. Not only that, but everyone keeps forgetting to move the damn elf before she wakes up. As a result, I doubt Shefford will be making an appearance next year – he and his cheeky painted grin will retire to the North Pole where they belong.

Then of course there’s the shopping. I generally go once with my mother and once with Leigha, but the three of us cannot go together. It causes massive arguments over which toy gun is the best for which germ breeder and whether we really need more wrapping paper. Seriously, we’re those people – standing in the middle of an aisle in the toy store, Leigha and I hissing curse words at each other and attempting to maim one another across the cart with whatever is handy while mom flaps her hands and squeals “Oh! Oh!”, “That’s enough!”, and “That’s it! We’re leaving!”

My sister and mother are both indecisive when it comes to shopping. They will wander through a store for hours, picking up and putting down dozens of things, making virtually no progress at all. Then suddenly they’ll look at the clock and realize they’ve been ensconced in retail hell for far too long and they’re going to be late getting home. That’s when they return with bags full of presents that don’t make a lot of sense, but that cost much more than they intended to spend. And half of them will be for Leigha.

“You know she doesn’t shop well”, mom says to me in accusation. As if it’s my fault she decided to take the teenager that’s more concerned with picking up her latest pair of hooker heels than what is on the list.

It’s a different story with mom and me. I prod her up and down each aisle with military precision – reading names off the list and barking orders. “Get that. No, no! Put that down! What are you doing?! Let’s go, go, go!” I’m a very detail oriented shopper. If I don’t have a list and a clear idea of what I’m getting, I don’t want to go.

But it’s not all business. We laugh a lot too – making fun of the other shoppers and each other. We’ll usually break for lunch or dinner, spreading receipts out on the table and pouring over the list before diving right back into the mayhem. It truly is one of my favorite parts of the holidays – spending that time with her, knowing that, at least for this, she’d prefer to be with me over my sister.

We bake rice krispy treats and cookies, cakes and pies. We make The Dip and little hors d'oeuvres called Christmas stars. We take Hannah to see Santa Claus and provide snacks for her school and daycare celebrations. There are programs to attend, cards to write, and parties for work, friends, and family. December is mapped out from beginning to end, and it can grow tiresome. And still, it seems we add more and more traditions every year. This one is no different.

Ray, my soon to be stepfather, apparently has a family every bit as large as ours. Mom, Leigha, and Hannah have been to their gatherings before, but for one reason or another, I never have. Since they got engaged, attendance to his family’s Christmas became mandatory. “It would be tacky to meet them at the wedding when you’ve had plenty of opportunity to do it beforehand”, mom said. And so on Saturday night, we went.

Ray had been in a fishing tournament all day and would be late, so it was with much bickering and shoving that we made our way to the party without him. I wasn’t sure what to expect. These people knew my daughter, but not me. Would they think I was an asshole for never coming around? And more to the point – what terrible stories had my mother told them about me? Spreading my business, with a special twist, is a habit of hers.

Arms laden with presents and food, we walked single file through the door. They were gathered in a detached garage turned rec room. There was a full kitchen set up on one side and an old wood burning stove on the other. The center was filled with long picnic tables and a few round tables covered in Christmas table cloths and decorative centerpieces. Hanging about a foot from the ceiling, one going around the entirety of the room and a smaller one at the center, were handmade train tracks complete with antique steam engines. They looked straight out of a scene from a Christmas movie. Every inch of wall space was covered – old license plates, pictures, football paraphernalia and, oddest of all, an entire wall dedicated to unopened packets of tools.

There were people everywhere. Toddlers ran through the legs of chatting adults and sullen teenagers sulked in the corner. Younger men hunched over the cooking area (it was a fish fry) and older men sat close to the stove. The women arranged side dishes and flitted back and forth, greeting new arrivals and shoving children gently away from the hot food. It reminded me of a tamer evening at my Papa’s and I immediately felt more at ease.

After shedding our coats and settling on a bench, they started to come over one by one. The men shook my hand and smiled warmly. The women went a bit further – embracing me, kissing and patting my cheek, saying how lovely it was to finally meet me. I’ve never been much of a toucher, but their attention didn’t bother me at all.

We socialized for awhile before Ray arrived, opening the door with a crash and a blast of cold air, euphoric from winning his tournament. He was immediately set upon by everyone, especially the women, and I thought to myself that it explained a lot about his personality. His mother died when he was young and he’s very close to her twin sister, who was there front and center. He seems to be something of a family pet.

Eating next to his cousins, laughing and joking over dinner, I felt like I’d always been there. I hoped that Ray felt the same with our extended family and I made a note to ask him sometime.

There were forty people there, not including small children, and after dinner we were lectured on the rules of gift giving. The game was Chinese Christmas. Each person brought a $15 - $20 gift and put it in a stack. Then we all drew a number to dictate when we could choose a present. Rather than go the normal route and start with number one the organizer, Ray’s uncle, decided to start with number 40 and go to number 20. Then switch to number one and go to 19. And with Chinese Christmas, you always want to have the number that goes last, because you can choose any present you want. The announcement of the new rules was followed by an immediate groan from the recipient of number 40, causing everyone to laugh.

When the game began, our little group huddled up and speculated about which presents we should choose from the stack and which we would steal, given the opportunity. (You can either open a present from the stack, or steal a present someone else has already opened.) As it progressed, I learned a little more about the people around me...and the reason behind the strange wall of unopened tools.

A woman unwrapped a small power drill and waved it in the air over her head for everyone to see. A roar of laughter went up around the room. My family looked around in confusion while fingers were pointed and chatter broke out. Ray’s cousin filled us in. “See that wall over there full of unopened tools?”

We nodded. “Yes...”

“Every year, when we play this game, Uncle Joe steals until he gets a set of tools and then tacks it on the wall. It drives everyone crazy, so they all try stealing them back from him. See that display of knives over there? He does it with those too.”

Another cousin interjected. “And look”, he said pointing over my head to a high shelf, “do you remember that glass? We threw that in the trash ages ago! He must have gotten it out again!”

Everyone laughed. And when, a short while later, someone opened a gift containing pocket knives and Uncle Joe’s eyes lit up, we laughed along with them.

The game continued on – with more friendly ribbing, desserts and drinks and stories. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had at a family Christmas. And technically, it wasn’t even my family. But they treated us like we were from the moment we walked in the door.

Later, as we pulled on jackets and gathered our things to go, the handshaking and hugs began again.

“Come back soon, you’re family now.”

“It was so wonderful to finally meet you.”

“We’re so glad Ray has ya’ll.”

His mom’s twin, my immediate favorite, hugged me goodbye. There was just something about her face – I couldn’t look at her without smiling. “I’ve given something to Ray for you girls”, she said as we walked out the door. “Merry Christmas! Thank you!” And we were gone.

Ray handed me an envelope with my name on the front as I was climbing into my car. I drove off into the dark, leaving the others with him, and I replayed the night’s events in my head – laughing at the image of a disgruntled Uncle Joe after he’d managed to steal the knife set, then lost it to the very next person. I hadn’t expected it to go that well and I certainly hadn’t expected to have such a good time.

Still lost in thought, I pressed a knee against my steering wheel and reached for the envelope. I broke the seal and pulled out a small white card that said “Merry Christmas” in silver script across the front. As I opened it, a stack of bills fell out onto my lap. I smiled, stuffing the money and the card into my purse.

Oh yes, I thought, that aunt is definitely my favorite. And this, the whole night, is definitely a tradition I won’t grow tired of anytime soon.

That's not the star of Bethlehem...it's the twinkle in my eyeball.

The day after Thanksgiving is usually the day I become possessed by the “Neurotic Christmas Spirit” and go balls-to-the-wall crazy.

But I’ve done no shopping, only the required amount of baking, and my tree didn’t go up until Sunday. SUNDAY! I didn’t even rearrange the ornaments after everyone finished hanging them.

The only tradition I insisted upon was that we listen to Barry Manilow’s Christmas album while we put up the tree.

I know what you’re thinking. “Barry fucking Manilow?! Really?!” But you can all shove it. Everyone has their little thing and my mom and I have been listening to Barry’s Christmas CD every year for...a very long time. His version of “Baby its cold outside” is a duet with this woman (I don’t know who) and she’s all moaning and shit. Classic.

My mom’s boyfriend Ray was absolutely horrified when my sister and I did an impromptu tango to “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”. He called us a bunch of freaks and went outside to man the grill and be...manly. We compromised and didn’t play Kenny G’s Christmas album so he would come back inside with the food.

So now it’s December first and I’ve done nothing but sing along with Barry and buy an elf that’s supposed to teach my child to behave.

The elf in question comes with a book and a plan. Basically he’s magic and reports back to Santa every night while the kid is sleeping. Every morning when she wakes up, he’ll be sitting in a different place and she’s not allowed to touch him or he won’t be magic anymore. The elf returns to the North Pole on Christmas Eve and comes back to do his spiel all over again next December first.

The storybook that accompanies the elf explains it all in childlike terms. Bad or good news- he’s giving Santa a rundown every night. Every pouting session, every foot stamp, every eye roll, every sucker punch to the kidneys – he’s gonna know about it.

The kid had to name the elf. She chose, for whatever strange reason, to name the little fucker Shefford. It took us five minutes to understand that it was Shefford because she pronounces it “Seffwoolld”. That’s the best I can do. Her R’s sound like a combination of O’s and L’s.

The only concept the kid has grasped so far (and I realize it’s only been in effect for one night) is that the elf is magic and comes awake while she’s asleep. I seriously doubt that it will have any effect on her behavior, but we’ll see.

This morning when I woke her up she didn’t even ask for coffee first. She said, “Did Seffwoolld come alive Mom?!”

“I think so honey.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to go see.”

I helped her down from the bed and she took off running across the hardwood floor, hair still covering her face and eyes half glued together from sleep. She didn’t make it three feet before she slipped and careened face first into the door jam.

“OW!” She screamed and kept on running. I stayed behind a minute to laugh like the caring mother I am. Had she not been on an important mission, that collision would have been “the end of the world”.

Other parents know what “the end of the world” looks like: snot, tears, wailing, and insistence that something or everything is broken. I spend a lot of my time in that place since the kid isn’t the hardcore destroyer that I was at that age. She’s very sensitive and when I laugh (which I do often) it doesn’t help matters much. I’ll work on it in therapy.

Anyway, she found Shefford atop the kitchen cabinets, cheeky painted grin in place. She immediately demanded to hold him and I had to remind her that he can’t be touched or the magic goes away. This resulted in pouting.

I foresee this month long “behavior game” becoming a problem. If it doesn’t end in tears and bloodshed, it’ll likely end in me forgetting to move the fucker and “Ooops! The elf’s out of the bag honey! There’s no such thing as magic until you’re old enough to know what an orgasm is, and believe me, Santa doesn’t give those out for Christmas.”

So the tree is up, the elf is installed, and Barry has had his sing-a-long.

Next on the agenda is present name drawing. I’ve somehow earned the privilege of being in charge of this year’s list of names at Papa’s house. That means I have to call all of our relatives on that side of the family and find out if they are coming to Christmas Eve dinner and if so, do they want to be in the pot.

There are a few advantages to being list master:

1) I can give my name to a big spender.
2) I can keep my name from going to the dollar store queen.
3) I know who has who and I will accept bribes for switching names.
4) I can deny name switching for the person I like least and give their name to the DG queen mentioned in #2.

I’ve been informed that my sister and another teenager, being underage and therefore ineligible for the drawing, will be watching to make sure I don’t cheat. I’ve been practicing my slight of hand with slips of paper up my shirt sleeves. We’ll see how it goes.

But really...I need to get my ass in gear. There are cookies to bake, presents to buy and wrap, and people to suck up to. Contrary to The Grandmother’s often voiced opinion, Christmas isn’t about Jesus.

It’s about me.