The Gifts That Keep On Giving

The further adventures of Randy and Clarice . . . . (Christmas in Stitches, Dec. 25, 2016)

Randy and Clarice sat nestled on the couch, watching the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle. Outside, a picturesque Christmas morning snow was falling – huge, fluffy, marshmallow flakes that swirled crazily in the rosy light of dawn.

“This reminds me of last year,” Randy said quietly, nuzzling his wife's hair. “Remember how we sat in the car outside your folks' house on Christmas Day? Remember how long it took you to get up the courage to go in? I thought I'd loose at least one finger to frostbite.” He chuckled lightly and squirmed. He enjoyed cuddling this way, his arm around Clarice, her head on his shoulder, but they had been sitting that way for nearly 20 minutes, and lack of circulation was making his fingers numb in an uncomfortably familiar way.

Clarice sighed and straightened, attuned to her husband's discomfort. Besides, she was getting a crick in her neck. “You had finally proposed, and I was afraid my crazy family would scare you off.”

“I love you, and your crazy family,” Randy said, kissing the tip of her nose. “You don't regret eloping to Vegas, do you?”

“I'm not sure that qualified as eloping, since both our families showed up to surprise us.”

“I learned my lesson. Never leave unopened mail around where your brother can find it when he jimmies the lock and invites himself in to our house for a beer while we're gone. And always pay cash for airline tickets. Cuts down on the paper trail.”

“Thank you for not abandoning me at the altar with the Elvis impersonators after Aunt Ethel kidnapped the minister. I'm fairly certain her ordination is legit.” Clarice said.

“And thank you for bailing me out of jail after that incident with my uncles at Treasure Island.”

“I'm sure they weren't the first drunken tourist to battle the pirates.”

“No, but they were probably the first to win,” Randy said.

“Besides, I was already at the station waiting to pick up Gramma.”

Randy snickered. “Glad she got those solicitation charges dropped.”

“Entrapment is more like it,” Clarice grumbled. “Why else would they put a handsome bicycle cop right outside a Chippendale's show? Who knew real cops wore spandex uniforms?”

“Good thing she only put a dollar in his shorts.”

“Yeah, he was just going to give her a warning until she tried to make change.”

They went back to quietly contemplating the Christmas tree, and the concentric arcs of gifts radiating out from under it.

“Do you suppose any of those gifts are for us?” Randy asked.

“Don't be silly. Your gift is upstairs in bed,” Clarice said, looking up at him coyly.

“Delivered by Santa himself. Ho, ho, ho!”

Clarice shook her head in amazement. “I'll never forget the look on Santa's face when I went into labor. Thank goodness his pants were water-repellent.”

“Thank goodness Santa was an off-duty paramedic! Leave it to the Donner-Dasher progeny to make a grand entrance. Or exit, as the case may be.”

“I'm going to guess there weren't a lot of requests for baby dolls after that. It was nice of the mall to give us the twins' first photo with Santa for free.”

“Speaking of Santa, did you hear any noises on the roof last night?” Randy asked.

“No, I'm pretty sure all these presents were delivered the old fashioned way – by the postman, the UPS man, and the FedEx man,” Clarice said. “I read that shipping services have been swamped since the older generation downsized to smart cars.”

“True. I don't think a Barbie Dream House would fit in Aunt Lucy's Fiat. But that's beside the point. I could swear I heard reindeer earlier. That's why I was up so early. Do you have any idea the kind of damage hooves could do to a steel roof?”

“I thought you got up early to put together those trikes,” Clarice laughed. “For heaven's sake, the twins won't be able to use them until spring – two years from now.”

Randy shrugged and stood up. “Nothing like a little motivation,” he said as he picked his way carefully along a crooked path through the gifts towards the kitchen. “Besides, they're our kids. I sure they're, ahem, gifted.”

“Your grandfather sure seems to think so. He sent early admission forms to Harvard yesterday, via courier.”

“Do you suppose a Harvard acceptance letter will get them short-listed at Peter Pan Preschool?” Randy said as he poured two cups of coffee, adding a generous splash of Baileys to his.

“Before you know it they'll be walking, and talking, leaving for college . . . .” Clarice's voice trailed off. Randy returned to find her sobbing quietly, tears streaming down her face.

“That won't happen for a long, long time, sweetheart.” Randy carefully arranged the two steaming mugs of coffee on opposite sides of a gargantuan bow, on top of a Power Wheels Jeep-sized box, which had replaced the coffee table. “There will be plenty of dirty diapers, skinned knees, broken bones, doctor bills, orthodontist bills, prom tickets, . . . .” Randy's voice trailed off.

Clarice wiped a tear from his cheek. “That won't happen for a long, long time, sweetheart.” Randy managed a weak smile. “At least not until they open all these presents!”

“These presents are taking over! I'm sure the dog's bed was in that corner yesterday. Now there's a . . . does that look like a pogo stick to you? Have you even seen the dog lately?”

“I shut Frosty in our room. He was whimpering at the door to the babies' room – I checked and they were sleeping – I didn't want him to wake them.”

“Did that box just meow?”

“You're imagining things. I'm glad we're hosting Christmas here this year.” Clarice tucked her feet up under her, carefully straightening a tower of noisy boxes – Legos she guessed – at the edge of the couch. She didn't remember them being there when she sat down. “This gives us a chance to start our own Christmas traditions.”

“I love your optimism, but my mom has been trying to weasel out of holiday hosting since my oldest brother got a place of his own. Nothing says Christmas quite like 12 Donners dining in a dorm room meant for one.”

“Well, we have plenty of room to host everyone. Or we had plenty of room. Tell me there aren't more boxes in the kitchen.”

“Not yet. Thank goodness our moms organized a pot luck meal.”

“Iowa beef roast meets Minnesota hot-dish with a side of Kosher.”

“And an un-healthy dollup of Paula Deen, balanced out with vegan . . . vegi . . . ovo . . . . What did your niece bring to the last supper, anyway?” Randy asked.

“I believe it was organic, non-GMO tree bark and pine needles, eco-consciously harvested from the ground. At least that's what it tasted like.”

“Happy Chris-Hanuk-Za-Stice. Did you stock up on Tums?”

“And toilet paper.” Clarice sighed. “How soon will the invasion start?”

Randy pointed to a timer perched on top of a huge box which had replaced the television. Around the outside edge of the timer was written “Doomsday Clock.”

“Two hours!” Clarice shout-whispered. “It's still dark outside. I thought we told them noon!”

“We did. But you know my mom is going to want some extra grandchild time, so she'll be here an hour early. And your mom wants extra grandchild time, and she knows my mom will be an hour early, so your mom will be here two hours early. And how long has that pile of gifts been in the doorway? I swear it wasn't there when I got coffee.”

“Honey, it's not like the presents are breeding. At least, I don't think they are.”

“You're right. I'm just nervous. What were we thinking? Both families here at the same time? We'd better enjoy this peace while we can. It will probably be the last quiet Christmas morning we'll have for several years.”

Clarice sighed and snuggled closer to Randy. “And I wouldn't have it any other way.”

As if to prove Randy's point, the baby monitor crackled to life. A voice, quiet as a mouse, spoke: “Good morning, Mother.”

Then another: “Good morning, Father.”

Clarice and Randy sat up straight and looked at each other in surprise.

“Did you hear . . . . ?”

“Did they just . . . . ?”

“Merry Christmas, losers!” A much louder, not at all mouse-like voice bellowed from the monitor. The living room was flooded with lights shining in through the window, and a recording of 'The Little Drummer Boy' began blaring. Randy and Clarice's looks of amazement turned to horror as they realized only one group of people could create an exterior illumination display of this magnitude.

“The cousins!” they both groaned.

“They have a bucket truck! I told you to fix the latch on the children's bedroom window!” Clarice shouted over the music.

“But that means . . . .” Randy and Clarice turned to see both their mothers joyously descending the stairs, holding little Francine and Victor Donner-Dasher aloft. Behind them followed a rowdy profusion of parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins from both families.

“Look on the bright side,” Clarice said to Randy. “This won't happen again for 324 days.”

“That soon?”

Have Yourself An Ugly Little Christmas Sweater

The Halloween pumpkins are moldering on the front stoop, and the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers have been left over for their last meal, ushering in the most angst-iful time of the year:

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season.

While I do loves me some Ugly Christmas Sweaters, I do hates me the potential for offending someone by complimenting them on their Ugly Christmas Sweater – which they do not consider to be an Ugly Christmas Sweater. As the mother of two teens, I am empathetic to having clothes judged so harshly. 

For example, when I asked The Little Princess what makes an Ugly Christmas Sweater ugly, she said “Anything that comes from Goodwill and looks like it was made by a Gramma.” When I asked The Little Prince the same question, he hesitated, quickly scanned what I was wearing and shrugged.

His response made me a little teary eyed, because that was the most he talked to me last week. And because I was wearing a normal, ordinary, not ugly, black sweatshirt, proudly emblazoned with “IOWA” in gold lettering.

Ugly? Or Taste Challenged?

That's the problem with Ugly Christmas Sweaters – there is no clear-cut description of what constitutes ugliness in a sweater, Christmas or otherwise. This new trend of marketing ugly as ugly has only made the situation worse. Just in case you've been living under a rock (or you shop at much nicer stores than I do) you can now buy Ugly Christmas Sweaters, Sweatshirts, T-shirts, Socks, Hats, Pants, Dresses, Pajamas and Suits. Some of these items try just a little too hard (like the suits), blowing right past Ugly Christmas Attire to Hideous Christmas Attire.

In my humble opinion, the beauty of an ugly sweater comes from the fact that it is not trying to be ugly. Are they tacky? Maybe. Tasteless? Probably. Ugly? Well . . . . It seems to me the ugliest of the Ugly Christmas Sweaters are the Ambiguously Ugly Christmas Sweaters. And this is where I struggle to know what to say, and whether or not to say it.

Trying too hard.

Should I say “I like your sweater,” and run the risk of looking like I don't recognize an ugly sweater when I see one? Or should I say “I like your ugly sweater,” and run the risk of offending the wearer, who may or may not think their sweater is ugly?

Which brings me back to my original question: What makes an Ugly Christmas Sweater Ugly?

Is it the embellishments? Does the addition of pom-poms, bells (which should be outlawed), bows, glitter, rhinestones, or puffy paint make the sweater ugly? Or is it the amount of embellishment? Personally I think lights or music (not just bells) should result in disqualification.

Is it the color? There are certain shades of pink and aqua which have taken up a firm residence in Christmas-color-land and which need to be sent back to the 1950s, from whence they escaped. Or is it the combination of colors? Red is OK, red and white are OK, but red, white and green start edging towards ugly.

Is it the pattern? There's nothing inherently ugly about snowflakes, reindeer and evergreens individually, but put them all together and the potential for ugly grows. Is it the image itself? Are reindeer, cats, dogs, penguins and elves OK? What about reindeer, cats, dogs penguins and elves wearing Santa hats? Are small images OK, and BIG images ugly? Or is it the other way around?

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season would be much less stressful if you were required to wear a button that proclaimed “Yes, I think this Christmas (fill in the blank) is ugly.”

Preferably a LARGE button, in off-pink and off-aqua, with flashing lights, music, bells and pom-poms.

And a Santa hat.

NOT an Ugly Christmas Sweater.

Christmas in Stitches

 “We don't have to do this, you know.” Clarice reached across the car's center console and gave Randy's hand a gentle squeeze. Randy sighed, his breath fogging the windshield. They had been sitting in the driveway for 10 minutes, and the cold was starting to seep through his dress pants and thin loafers, chilling him to the bone. He was anxious to get going, but he knew better than to rush his newly minted fiance.

Randy returned her squeeze, hoping he used just enough pressure to be reassuring. It was hard to tell. His fingers were starting to go numb from the cold, and her mittens were thick. They had been a gift from his mother. They were giant, frightening, furry things, that made it look like Clarice was wearing dead rabbits on her hands. Bizarre, but warm, he thought, wistfully. He had received a pair as well, but had buried them at the back of the coat closet after the neighbor's dog nearly took his hand off.

“Is it too early to start drinking?” Clarice mused aloud.

Randy raised an eyebrow and gave her a sideways glance. He knew this was a rhetorical question, but felt compelled to answer anyway.

“That was the first thing you asked me this morning when the alarm went off.”

“Heh, heh. Just checking.”

“Besides, I know you filled your water bottle with white wine before we left the house,” he said.

“So?”

“It held the whole bottle of wine.”

“And?”

“And now it's empty.”

“Oh!” Clarice tipped the bottle up and held it there, hoping one last drop might accumulate and roll out onto her tongue. When that didn't happen, she licked the inside of the bottle neck.

“Well, that explains a lot,” she said. “Maybe we should swing by a store for a refill. Maybe we should swing by a store, get a case of wine and a roasted chicken from the deli and go back home and hide out until Christmas is over.”

“I'm pretty sure everything is closed by now, honey. You'll be fine.”

Clarice and Randy sat in the car a while longer, watching the snow fall. It had been snowing all afternoon, a magical, storybook, Christmas Eve snow. Marshmallow-sized, fluffy flakes glimmered in the headlights and swirled crazily under the streetlights. Randy guessed a good eight inches had fallen already – three of that while they had sat waiting in the car. He sighed again. If they didn't get going soon, they'd have to climb out through the sunroof, he thought. If they could get it open.

“I could call Ma and tell her we had a flat,” Clarice said softly. “Or that the roads are bad and we just don't want to risk it. Or that the dog got out and we have to look for it.”

“We don't have a dog, Clarice.”

“We'll tell her you got me one for Christmas. Adds to the drama.”

“I'm allergic. Your mom knows that. We had a long discussion. A long discussion that somehow segued into gallstones, hemorrhoids and colonoscopies. In great detail.” Randy shuddered at the memory.

“She might have forgotten. She's old.”

“Not that old.” He squeezed her hand again. At least he thought he did. All feeling was gone in his hands, and his teeth were starting to chatter. “Clarice, honey, it will be fine.”

“It will be a nightmare,” Clarice said.

“I've met your family before. Many times. I like them.”

Clarice rested her head on the passenger side window and stared out into the gathering darkness.

“You've never seen them at Christmas.”

Randy cupped his hands in front of his mouth and breathed heavily onto them. It sounded almost like a sigh, he thought, and Clarice didn't seem to notice.

“I survived the Fourth of July party.”

That got her attention. She looked at him and snorted. “Yeah, it only took what, 10 stitches?”

“I didn't realize it was full-contact yard bags,” Randy said, shrugging. “Or that the first rule of Dasher family games is that there are no rules.”

“I told you my nephew threw overhand.”

“But you didn't tell me he had such bad aim.”

“He doesn't.”

“Oh.”

Randy sighed again, for real, and tried to slip his hands under his thighs to warm them up. That only made his legs colder.

“Mu-mu-mu-maybe I cu-cu-could just run the heat for a mu-mu-mu-minute.” He reached for the ignition. Clarice shot her hand out to stop him. Randy winced at the sudden contact, certain that at least one frozen finger had shattered.

“No!” Clarice hiss-whispered. “Listen to that.”

Randy tilted his head and listened. “I don't hear anything.”

“Exactly. We must respect the quiet.”

It was quiet, Randy thought. Quiet and peaceful. And he was so tired. But that might have been caused by the carbon monoxide or hypothermia.

I LIKE BIG BUTTS AND I CAN NOT LIE . . . . Clarice's phone shattered the silence. Randy knew that was the ringtone she reserved for her mother.

“How long you gonna sit out there in the driveway? Dinner's almost ready.” Clarice held the phone out between them. She didn't have it on speaker. Her mom was just that loud. “Tell Randy I've got a special surprise for him. Hi, Randy!”

Randy looked up. Mrs. Dasher was standing in the front window of the house, next to the Christmas tree, waving at them.

“Hi, Mrs. Dasher,” Randy said towards the phone, while waving back at her through the windshield.

“Ah, geeze, Ma. You promised, no surprises . . . .”

“Pish. I called his mom. She shared one of their favorite family traditions. She's a pip, that one. I invited her and the family down for dinner, but she said they already had plans.”

Clarice put one mittened hand over her face. When she peeked out around the fur, she saw Randy staring at her, his eyes open wide with shock. He silently mouthed My family?

“We're gonna get together after the first of the year. But we can go over all that when you two get in here. Hurry it up. I need you to make the green bean casserole. Your sister's no help. She's been drinking since she got here. At noon.”

Clarice looked at Randy and mouthed I'm already behind! Randy shook his head and tried to suppress a giggle. Clarice punched him in the arm. Randy watched it happen, but didn't feel it. His arm was numb now, too.

“What about Aunt Jan? Why doesn't she help you?”

“She's got her hands full keeping Uncle Jimmy away from all open flames. He's been in the bean dip all afternoon. Your dad and your brother are arguing over the NFL highlight game from '84 – but it's still not changing the outcome. And your nieces and nephews are holed up in the old toy room, 'burning incense'.” Randy and Clarice saw that Mrs. Dasher made air quotes as she said that. Then she snorted. “As if. Little bastards. Think I was born yesterday? I know what frankincense and myrrh smells like. Your brother's latest wife . . . .”

“Shandra. She has a name, Ma. Shandra.”

“No, Shandra was last year's model. This one's Melody, or Melissa, or something. Anyway, she's downstairs with the cousins playing cards. I just hope it's not for money or clothes. You know how your cousin Donnie cheats. And Mel-whatever wasn't wearing much to begin with.”

“You invited the cousins?”

Mrs. Dasher sighed. “Your dad let it slip when he ran into Angie down at the gas station. What could we do?”

“I dunno, Ma, sounds like a houseful. And the snow's really piling up. Maybe we should just head back home.”

“Clarice Lorraine. You live ten minutes away. You could walk.”

“Yeah, but . . . .”

“You are not leaving me alone with this house-full of crazies!”

She's the Queen Crazy, Clarice mouthed at Randy

“I heard that young lady.”

“Ma, I didn't say anything!”

“I read lips.”

Clarice rolled her eyes.

“I saw that, too.”

“Fine.”

“Get in here, or I'm bustin' out the slide projector . . . .”

Randy sat up and smiled brightly.

“I said fine. Just gimme a . . . .”

“And the pictures of you as a sheep in the church Christmas pageant.”

Randy's smile grew. Clarice's shoulders slumped, defeated.

“We'll be right in, Ma.”

“Love ya', hon. You too, Randy!” Mrs. Dasher waved one more time, then disappeared from the window.

“Save yourself, Randy. Take the car, drive around the block a couple times. Gimme 10 minutes. Then just pull up to the curb, flash the lights, honk the horn twice and I'll come running out.”

“Maybe you're getting a little carried away, sweetie. It looks pretty quiet from here. No visible flames, no SWAT team, no disco lights.”

“Oh, sure. On the outside, this is just another quaint, cozy, happy family home. That's how they do it, you know. They lull you into a false sense of normalcy, them BAM! Total. Fucking. Chaos. I bet John Wayne Gacy's house seemed pretty normal from the outside, too.”

“Nah, I think there was always something . . . off there. I mean, look at the other houses in your neighborhood.” Randy pointed at the houses around them. “One creepy, dark house, still in Halloween mode – I think, at least I hope; one tacky, over-decorated house testing the endurance of the electricity grid; one giant, hippie, peace-sign – which stays up all year round, by the way; and one yard covered with frightening, jiggling, inflatable decorations. What is that one supposed to be, anyway?”

Clarice tilted her head sideways to get a different perspective.

“I think Mrs. Snowman fell over and pulled Mr. Snowman with her, but he's still . . . . Oh, dear, sweet baby Jesus!” Clarice started laughing. “We're gonna be over-run with snowbabies!”

“And then there's your family's house. Tasteful wreath on the front door, soft glow from the Christmas tree in the window. An oasis of calm.”

“When we were little, Dad would put a Santa on the roof. That stopped after Bobby added a string of yellow lights to make it look like Santa was taking a leak. We had a plastic nativity scene, but Dad put too big a bulb in Joseph and he melted and slumped over. Looked like had gas pains. Then Ma switched to those lighted deer. Until the cousins repositioned them . . . not unlike our neighbor's amorous snowmen. Last year they hung one deer from the tree by a hind leg, like they were gutting it. Ma. Freaked. Out. She said no more outside decorations. Ever. I think she underestimates the rest of the family. Mark my words. By the end of the night, somehow these modest decorations will be re-arranged into something obscene or sacrilegious. Or both.”

“I dunno, Clarice, your mom can really lay down the law.”

“Dad says she keeps a loaded Supersoaker by the door. She's on hyper-alert. She's already accidentally doused the newspaper boy and the mailman. Dad gave them each a bottle of whiskey to apologize.”

“A thoughtful man.”

“Not so much. The paperboy is 12.”

Randy coughed to cover his laughter. He sensed Clarice didn't see the humor.

“We should have gone to your folks',” she said.

“No way! I put you through that hell last year. You deserve a respite.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about crazy, as in my family.”

“They're not crazy. They're . . . quiet. They just sit there so politely. And they talk. Quietly.”

Randy snorted. “Yes, they are quiet, but no, they don't talk. That's how crazy they are. No one talks to anyone about anything. Anything! As if that's not a recipe for misunderstanding! Just because they're quiet doesn't mean they're not crazy. The Donners are the poster family for dysfunctional. It's a quiet dysfunctional, but it's still dysfunctional. And crazy.”

“I'll take quiet crazy over loud crazy anytime,” Clarice said. “And I bet they never throw stuff.”

“That's a bet you would lose, sweetheart. Believe you me. Besides, I don't think dysfunction is a competition.”

Mrs. Dasher flashed the porch light on and off. Then she appeared in the window holding a slide carousel tray.

“I guess we'd better get inside.”

“Darn, I was really hoping to see the sheep show.”

“You know she'll show that to you anyway,” Clarice said, wearily. “I'd just like to explain ahead of time: I was five, the costume was hot and itchy. And it smelled. And Ma should have made me wear something under it.”

Randy chuckled, then leaned over the console and kissed Clarice gently on her nose. “I can't wait to see how our crazy, dysfunctions combine.”

Clarice pulled him closer and kissed him. It was a long, slow kiss, full of promise. Randy felt his extremities begin to thaw.

“Maybe we should head back to our place,” he whispered in her ear.

The porch lights flashed urgently. Randy and Clarice looked up to find both Mr. and Mrs. Dasher standing in the doorway. Clarice's brother and sister and her husband were all standing in the window. Clarice's brother was dancing inappropriately with the tree.

After shucking their coats and adding their presents to the pile surrounding the tree, Randy and Clarice joined an assortment of Dashers in the kitchen.

“Oh. My. God! You win the ugly sweater contest, hands down!” Clarice's sister Karen said to Randy. “That is hideous!”

“That was my Christmas gift to him. It's cashmere,” Clarice said, gritting her teeth.

“Oops! My bad. Still . . . .” Karen shrugged, then tried to change the subject. “So, what were you two doing out there? Workin' on a last minute Christmas gift?” She winked at Randy and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Christ! They were out there long enough to conceive and deliver a Christmas gift,” Clarice's brother Bobby said.

“Not everyone is as quick at . . . wrapping as you are, darling,” Mel-whatever said, exiting the kitchen.

“Oh yeah? Well, I got a Yule log with your name on it, right here, baby,” Bobby shouted after his wife.

Mrs. Dasher, Clarice and Karen shared a look.

“This is why we don't bother learning their names,” Clarice whispered to Randy. “He'll have a new one next year.”

“Yule log? That gives me an idea!” Karen's husband Eddy said, grabbing her by the waist.

“Oh, please. Yule twig maybe,” Karen said, rolling her eyes.

“Twig? What? I'm talking lawn ornaments, here,” Eddy said. Two of the cousins nodded in response.

“We got just the thing for superior exterior illumination in the truck,” the cousins said.

“What are you talking about?” Eddy said to Karen.

“What do you mean, 'lawn ornaments?' There will be no 'exterior illumination'!” Mrs. Dasher shouted.

Clarice pulled Randy into a corner. “Let the holiday chaos commence,” she said.

“Twig? Twig? What are you talking about woman?”

“Oh, please. It's not as if . . . .”

“No decorations! Do I make myself clear?”

“I remember my high school sweetheart,” Aunt Jan said. “Talk about a Yule log.”

“What the . . . .”

“None! No lights, no inflatables, no nothing!”

Ka-Chang!

A heavy, metalic thunk cut through all the yelling and shouting and planning, and the normal clattering of plates and silverware and dishes heaped with food. The hand-held can opener rocked slowly on the tile floor, beneath a hand-held can opener-shaped indentation in the drywall. An indentation that had not been there just moments ago.

The fighting stopped. An uneasy quiet settled over the room.

Each member, soon-to-be member or soon-to-be-ex-member of the extended Dasher family looked sheepishly at each other, trying to determine who the appliance-thrower was. The dent in the wall had appeared in the small gap between Mel-whatever and Bobby's son Rocky. Another couple inches either way, and one of them would have been impaled. Or at least bruised. But who had thrown the unwieldy manual appliance? It had been years since Bobby had raised a finger to help with food preparation. Would he even know which drawer the can opener was stored in?

“THAT'S. IT.” Mrs. Dasher's voice was strong and clear. She smacked the counter with a kitchen towel for emphasis.

Clarice looked at Randy, her eyes filling with tears. This was a new level of crazy, even for her family. She wouldn't blame him if he asked her to return his engagement ring – which she had only received that morning.

“We have . . . .” Everyone in the room held their breath.

“A winner! Ladies and gentlemen, check your lottery charts!” A happy shout went up.

“What? Ma? What the hell is going on?” Clarice looked on in astonishment as the rest of her family pulled papers out of their pockets, unfolded them and compared notes.

“Who had 'something gets thrown' and 'kitchen'?” Mrs. Dasher asked.

“R.D. – Randy Donner!”

“Alrighty then! The winner of the first annual Dasher Family Lotto is Randy! Now, help me get this food to the table before it cools off. Get! Go! Let's eat!”

“Congrats Randy, my boy. And welcome to the family,” Mr. Dasher said as the rest of the family carried dish after dish laden with food to the dining room. All traces of bickering had been replaced by teasing and laughter.

For the moment.

“I'm gonna need you to repair that divot in the wall, you know,” Mr. Dasher said, as he hoisted the platter overflowing with turkey. “I didn't know you had such bad aim.”

“I don't.” Randy grinned.

“What just happened here?” Clarice asked him.

“That's my nice, quiet family's favorite tradition,” Randy said. “Christmas Lotto. Typically accompanied by lots of egg nog. Heavy on the bourbon, light on the nog.” Randy showed Clarice his lotto chart. It was a grid of squares – ten wide, ten deep. Along the horizontal axis were written a variety of times and places; the vertical axis was labeled with random events, including “something gets thrown,” “someone requires stitches,” “a punch is thrown,” “tree is knocked down,” and “someone gets naked.” The initials of each family members were scattered throughout the grid.

Clarice looked at Randy in astonishment.

“This is your family Christmas tradition?”

“Like my mom always says, 'it's not Christmas until someone throws a can opener'.”

We Wish You A Happy Chris-Val-Fourth-Giving

Every year it seems like there's that one Christmas decoration that gets overlooked when all the others are put away at the end of the season. You know the one. The little figurine or picture or table runner or towel that gets overlooked in all the re-boxing and storing and cussing, and then – WaBam! – it's July and someone asks “Why do you still have this life-size Santa standing in the corner of your living room, half-buried under a pile of unfolded laundry?”

You know the one.

Eventually you find it and set it at the top of the stairs with all the other stuff you plan on taking downstairs on your next trip to the laundry room, and then – WaBam! – it's November and you're going to be getting the Christmas decorations out soon anyway, so, why bother?

Or maybe you do take it downstairs, but all the Christmas decoration boxes are full, and you've piled a bunch of stuff on the floor in front of them so you can't get to them to store it away properly (and you'd like to say the storage area is a mess because of The Great Remodel, but the truth is it's always higgledy-piggledy) and so you end up putting it in with a pile of random holiday decorations and it's never seen again or at least not for a couple of years and by then everyone's forgotten about it and – WaBam! – it's like having a brand new decoration to display.

My point is...

This year's front-runner for mis-stored Christmas decoration is Max's stocking. He thinks it's still in the living room, under the Christmas tree, hidden among the empty boxes and the last few (practical) gifts (like the socks that I lovingly picked out because they desperately needed them and the jigsaw puzzles I gave them even though I am the one who ends up putting them together although they all appear out of no where to put that last piece in). Gifts that I will add to the assorted piles in their rooms when I take down the Christmas tree.

Taking down the Christmas tree, of course, reveals that one Christmas ornament that gets overlooked when all the other ornaments are carefully taken off the tree for re-boxing and storing, so when it comes time to take apart and store the Christmas tree – WaBam! – there it is and you have to set it aside while you continue to unfluff and unplug and fold up and squish the pokey, dusty, fake-needle dropping tree sections back into the box because they all came out of there and so they must all go back in but now they don't fit and you're hot and sweaty and dusty and where did that freaking decoration go and where is the cat and why is the box meowing?

Except!

Except that this year the children were in charge of putting the decorations on the tree and they took one look at the piles of stuff on the floor in front of the Christmas tree decoration boxes  and decided that we would do a minimalist tree, enjoying the sparse beauty of a semi-fluffed, pre-lit artificial tree upon which most of (well, some of) the lights worked.

In the quiet darkness, those twinkling white lights (the ones that lit, anyway) were quite lovely and peaceful. Or they were until the cat decided to claim the tree as his own fortress of solitude and hid beneath it to launch nightly surprise attacks upon the unsuspecting ankles of anyone passing by.

Eventually The Princess decided to add some hand-crafted decorations to the tree, just like she did

when she was little. But instead of hanging glitter-covered cut-outs, or Popsicle stick creations, or beaded... somethings... she decorated the tree with Buffalo Wild Wings crowns, using it as an excuse to eat there almost exclusively the week before Christmas. (Note: Buy B-Dubs stock. Now. In large quantities.)

I am hoping that Max's stocking turns up eventually, but if not it will join the Santa decoration which has sat on top of the entertainment center year-round for the past three years. Santa's become a fixture up there, along side the family photos in the inspirational, catch-phrase photo frames (“Good Times,” “The Boys,” “Family Fun”). The photos that are now five years out of date – except for the “Family Fun” frame which still has two empty spots – in the frames that caused The Princess to roll her eyes so hard they still haven't focused.

“Mooooom,” she said, rolling her eyes, “we're not that kind of people.”

What kind of people? I asked.

“The kind of people who put signs with words on them everywhere.” Which is kind of funny, because since then she has painted approximately ninehundredseventythree canvases with inspirational sayings and snippets of songs and they cover Every. Square. Inch. of previously bare wall space in her room.

And she's right, because I'm fairly certain the kind of people who routinely display inspirational messages on their walls would never leave a Santa decoration up all year. For multiple years.

Sometimes I worry that I'm shortchanging my kids by not decorating for each season. But at least once a month I do try to rotate the pile of mail, newspapers and assorted school papers needing to be signed and returned – or at least clear off enough space on the dining room table for three plates (we're never all four home for dinner at the same time anyway). And the laundry is always folded and moved out of the living room within two weeks. And there isn't (hardly) any expired food (from 2009) in the refrigerator.

And in addition to the year-round Santa decoration, I also have a pink-glittered Valentine heart on my bookshelf, a red-white-and-blue flower arrangement over my sewing table and a solar-powered, head-bobbing, Thanksgiving turkey figure on my desk, so it's not that I don't decorate for the holidays, but more like I decorate for all of them all the time.

I'm multi-decorational. Continual celebrational.

Happy Chris-Val-Fourth-Giving.

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (My Way)

Let the Christmas battles begin.

To maintain familial harmony, one must choose their battles wisely. This doesn't change just because Santa is watching.

Trust me.

Being The Queen Mom, Supreme Ruler of All Things Domestic Which Require Cleaning, Feeding, Mending, Signing, Cooking or Washing/Drying/Folding (and part-time Taxi Driver), I usually get to set the rules for general holiday decorating and celebrating at our house. I'm also the only one who knows where the decorations are stored (because I'm the one who puts them away every year), and the only one brave enough to venture to the dark recesses of the storage room where they are stored (which made it a great place to hide Christmas gifts), so I have a leg up.

With the house in disarray due to The Great Remodeling Project, I was really, really, NOT looking forward to putting up the Christmas tree this year. It's a hassle most years trying to find a home for all the crap that needs to be put away to make room for the tree. This year all that “other” storage space is already in use... as well as any flat surface I can find.

But over the weekend I decided that we didn't need a 24-inch wide path through the family room when a 18-inch wide path would do. And besides, it's not gonna get any better before Christmas, so what the heck?

Up went the tree.

Well, it wasn't quite that easy.

Despite the fact that I am a horrible housekeeper, I have a fairly involved cleaning process (some might call it anal retentive) when it comes to Putting Up The Tree. The pre-tree steps include, but are not limited to: putting away the crap that is already out (cramming everything in storage boxes and stacking those boxes on top of the boxes already in the storage area/family room), dusting (for the first time since last Christmas), vacuuming (for the second time since last Christmas), moving all the stuff that has been piled on top of the Christmas tree box since last Christmas (and cussing), hauling the box upstairs (cussing), trying to remember how to put the tree together (less cussing since I wrote myself notes on the box), carrying in the box back downstairs, piling the crap back on top of the box, and vacuuming again (cussing all the way).

Usually the rest of the family members and the cat try to “help”. This year they all made themselves scarce. I think they've finally learned.

There was a lot less cussing this year, too. Coincidence?

Once the tree is up, the real battles begin. The children would leave the lights on 24-7 if they could. The Husband would turn the lights on in the morning when he gets up and as soon as he gets home if he could and the children hadn't already beaten him to it.

I have a strict dusk to bedtime schedule for lights. This means I spend most of my daylight hours turning the Christmas lights off.

Despite my very militant enforcement of lighting hours, I would go full-on Griswold (as in Clark Griswold of “Christmas Vacation”) when it comes to exterior illumination, if I weren't so lazy and cheap, that is. (Nope, not gonna pay someone else to do it for me.)

The Husband, on the other hand, requires any exterior lights to be tasteful (Ya' lost me right there. Can you say Flamingo Santa?) and in keeping with the theme of the season. The children both now have strings of lights hung in their rooms – All. Year. Long. – so it could be three to one if we put it to a vote. But since the husband is the one we make climb the ladder, his vote counts for like, four.

As zealous as I am about appropriate lighting times, I am even more fanatical about Christmas music. Look it up in the Bible, the Constitution (both US and Russian), the Laws of Robotics, and the Prime Directive: “No Christmas Music Shall Be Played Prior to the Evening of Thanksgiving.”

Trust me. It's there.

Right after: “Thou Shalt Listen to Arlo Guthrie's “Alice's Restaurant” Prior to Noon on Thanksgiving Day.”

Unfortunately, The Husband has, due to weighted voting, ratified the “Snoopy's Christmas” Amendment, meaning that The Royal Guardsmen's “Snoopy Vs. The Red Baron” can be played immediately following Arlo Guthrie's “Motorcycle Song” (which must be played immediately following “Alice's Restaurant,” because, well, I only dust off the CD once a year), and must be played ad nauseam until February (or until The Wife hides the CD). Personally, I would listen to my Harry Connick Jr. Christmas CDs all season (and longer), if I could only find them. Hmmm....

The Little Prince and Princess have no input on the Christmas Music Debate, as they typically roll their eyes, retreat to their rooms, and put on their head phones whenever the topic is brought up for discussion.

Although, the Princess switched the radio in my car to the XM station “Holly” November first, thus losing her driving privileges for at least... until she needed my car again.

And the Little Prince routinely takes the ukulele out of my hands mid-performance (?) of Mele Kalikimaka and proceeds to play it much, much better than I can. Despite my many, many sessions of ukulele lessons and his total lack of ukulele lessons.

It's a good thing I still have a hot line to Santa.

And I'm not afraid to use it.

I'll be Home (Ec) for Christmas

Google “Home Ec -- I mean Family Consumer Science -- Christmas Lesson Plans” and what do you get?

Christmas Cookie Lab. Christmas Cookie Bake Sale. Christmas Cookie Sampler. Christmas Cookie Comparison. Christmas Cookie Swap. Healthy Christmas Treats (there's one in every crowd).

Ask the students, right after they fill out the Spooky Halloween Treat Lab evaluation, what do they want to do next?

“Make Christmas cookies.”

So when the principal asked me “Would your classes like to make cookies to serve during semester tests?” I said yes. (Actually, I gave him the “are you kidding?” look.) Then I asked my students.

Do you want to bake Christmas cookies? “Yes!”

For the other students? “Ummm....”

You can have some, too. YES!

I was feeling pretty confident in their abilities. After all, they made snacks for a conference-wide, school administrators' meeting last month. AND had recipe requests. All semester these kids have done incredible work in the kitchens. Sure we hit a rough spot with the “healthier options” recipes, but I think whole wheat Snickerdoodles are an acquired taste.

Some students have… contributed more than others. Some have... put forth more effort than others. But each of these students has made me incredibly proud at least once this semester.

All that ended with The Great Christmas Cookie Catastrophe.

I'm not blaming the kids. I should have known better than to use untested recipes (stupid Google search). I should have watched the oven timer more closely (and made sure they used it).

I should not have tried to buy Billy Joel concert tickets on-line as soon as they went on sale while trying to supervise the creation of a batch of festive, fudge-brownie cookies.

I felt like Goldilocks. One batch of cookies was over-cooked. One batch was under-cooked. One batch was... why did I approve an anise-flavored cookie anyway? And there is not enough time in a 45-minute class period for the students to do all the baking and cleaning.

To top it all off: I didn't get a ticket for the Billy Joel concert in Minneapolis.

Ouch. Way to kick a girl when she's down, Target Center ticket program. (It's not sold out yet, but I haven't liked the “best available” tickets they've “suggested” for me. I'm gambling here. Really, you think there's not gonna be one single, odd seat left on the floor? )

Final. Straw.

Camel's back? Broken.

So I stood, forlorn, in the kitchens as the students filed in for homeroom. I was stressed, surrounded by piles of inedible cookies, mountains of dirty dishes and flour-covered counters. And I was ticket-less.

There were tears.

Yeah. No. Really.

I cried.

Over cookies.

It was a brief, silent, ragged breathing, just a couple of tears overflowing type of cry. Not my proudest moment.

Wound. Too. Tight.

But one sweet boy talked me down. “Are you ok, Mrs. Salemink?”

He helped clean up the mess – a mess he didn't make! – and helped me sort out and salvage more cookies than I thought possible.

Santa's weepy elf might have to fill in a little around the edges (I'm just not sure high schoolers are ready for anise-flavored cookies. I'm not sure any one is, no matter what the Albuquerque Convention and Visitors Bureau says.) But it looks like the Home Ec – I mean Family Consumer Science – classes will help make semester tests (and Christmas – I mean winter – break) just a little brighter at West Branch High School.

Now if the Target Center would just cut to the chase and pony up a front row, center stage ticket we could put this whole ugly scene behind us.

And have a Merry Christmas. Cookie.