Fake It Till You Make It (Down the One-Way Street)

I learned something the other day, while in the People's Republic of Iowa City:

If you find yourself driving down a one-way street going the wrong way, you should look surprised – nay, irritated – to see another car coming at you in “your lane.”

If you look irritated enough, the driver of the other car – the car going the right way on the one-way street – may question whether or not they are actually driving the right way on the one-way street.

At least, they will if that driver is me.

There I was, driving in the left lane of the 2-lane, one-way street (Clinton St.) where it swoops around the back of the Johnson County Administration Building, cursing my luck for being in the left lane, which becomes a turn-only lane at the stop light at South Gilbert and wondering which of the nice people in the long line of cars zipping along in the right lane would be so kind as to let me merge in front of them when I looked up and . . .

Saw a car ahead of me. In my lane. Coming at me.

At that moment I discovered that when a crash seems imminent time slows, and your senses are enhanced so that you can take in a plethora of information.

What I thought: “Oh my! That car is going the wrong way on this one-way street. Surely they will pull into that driveway up ahead so as to avoid a head-on collision.”

What I actually said: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

What I could plainly read on the face of the driver of the oncoming car: “I refuse to let my driving be restrained by the arbitrary assignment of directions to streets. Maybe this street has self-identified as a two-way! How dare you impose your bourgeoisie ideas about 'way-ness' on this street. Get out of my lane, you capitalist, sexist, 'way-ist' pig! (And don't call me Shirley.)”

What I thought: “Crap. That driver looks pretty confident. Maybe I am going the wrong way. Maybe I should try to get over.”

What I actually said: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

What I could plainly read on the face of the driver of the car beside me in the right lane after I pulled as close to the center line as I could and they honked at me: “What the X@! do you think you're doing? Oh, hey, look at that! You are about to have a head-on collision with someone who is going the wrong way on this one-way street. Sucks to be you.”

What I thought when I turned my attention back to the oncoming car: “Oh crap! They aren't pulling into that driveway!”

What I said: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

What I could plainly read on the face of the driver of the next car to zoom past me in the right lane: “Hey, look at that! You're about to have a head-on collision with someone going the wrong way on this one-way street. Sucks to be you. But I'm not going to let you merge in front of me because I have an old clunker of a car and you would be doing me a favor if you would crash into me.”

Me: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

Driver of the third car in the right lane: “Hey! Look at that. Someone is going the wrong way on this one-way street and they are about to run head-on into this car which has come to a complete stop and is trying desperately to merge into my lane. Sucks to be them. But it would suck even more if they ran into my nice, new, shiny car, or if debris from their head-on collision were to dent my nice, new, shiny car, so I suppose I will let them merge in front of me. But I will scowl at them menacingly, so they will realize how put out I am by them driving down a one-way street the right way and their narrow-minded insistence that everyone pay attention to and follow road signs.”

Me, as I pull into the right lane seconds before the car going down the one-way street the wrong way hit me head-on: “Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Driver of the car going down the one-way street the wrong way, who still has not pulled over or slowed down, as they pass me: “Idiot. I scorn you and your weak, lane-changing, bourgeoisie avoidance of a head-on collision. Question road-sign authority! Viva la Revolution!”

My take away from the whole situation? Fake it till you make it. Or until you make someone else get out of your way.

Assault by Battery

I am not a morning person.

I've known this for a long time. And yet, after getting up at 4:30 a.m. to make the 5:30 a.m. workout, three times a week, for nearly a year (more than a year?), I thought maybe I had figured out how to compensate for my lack of morning alertness.

I thought wrong.

I know that I need that full hour of preparation in order to have a cup of coffee – caffeine being key to my ability to function properly in the morning – before attempting to dress myself (full set of clothing always selected the night before) and driving to the gym. I just hadn't realized how tenuous my grip on early-morning cognition was until last week.

Things were going along according to schedule until I knocked the teeny-tiny travel alarm clock off the teeny-tiny medicine cabinet shelf. I think the fact that I was able to hit such a small target in such an out of the way location with my early morning flailings says a lot about why I need to start waking up an hour before my workout.

And, I should probably mention, that teeny-tiny clock has sat on that teeny-tiny shelf for lo, these many years, trying in vain to keep me on time in the morning, without ever being bumped, let alone knocked off the teeny-tiny shelf. And that, for the past month or so I have noticed that not only was it off by an hour (from the last day light savings time switch), but by an additional 20 minutes, too. All of which means the teeny-tiny clock served more as a reminder that time is continually passing, and less as a notification of the actual time.

Regardless of the relativity of time, I watched in open-mouthed surprise (the medicine cabinet has a mirror in addition to teeny-tiny shelves) as the teeny-tiny clock fell (or jumped, in a desperate bid for freedom) off the teeny-tiny shelf and bounced in the sink, dislodging the teeny-tiny cover to the battery, which set the teeny-tiny A-sized battery loose (in its own desperate bid for freedom). The battery's freedom was short lived – or poorly executed – as it slipped down the gaping maw of the sink drain.

Well.

Not having any idea how to rescue the teeny-tiny battery, and being more than a little miffed that it would choose that particular moment to bolt, and knowing that the sink would not be used again until after I returned from my workout, I did the only thing my sleep-lacking brain could think of – I turned off the light and went to the gym.

As soon as I pulled out of the driveway, however, I started to imagine that teeny-tiny battery making its way through the drain pipe, through the sewer system, and out into some creek, where it would be eaten by a teeny-tiny fish, who would die a horrible death and then be dissected by a humorless EPA official who would find the teeny-tiny battery and somehow trace it back to me and immediately send a SWAT team to apprehend me at the gym.

I may not be very physically coordinated in the morning, but my imagination functions just fine.

So it was that I found myself planning an elaborate, Rube Goldberg-esque, system for retrieving the teeny-tiny battery instead of paying attention to the workout instructions (not a totally new situation), and managed to mess up two of the stretches. Stretches, mind you. Stretches which are important, but not, typically that mentally demanding.

I returned home and gathered supplies – needle nosed pliers, a drinking straw, a slender wire, and a piece of gum – for my MacGyver inspired battery-retrieval plan, only to discover that I couldn't even see, much less reach the battery with whatever it was I had in mind.

So it was that the husband found me searching for a monkey wrench to dismantle the drain pipe. I had hoped to handle this situation without his knowledge because he was preparing to leave for a week-long, work-related trip, and he had more than enough on his to-do list already. The husband – who is a morning person – calmly told me I probably would not need a monkey wrench, but reminded me to place a bucket under the pipe before proceeding.

And so it was I left him in the tool room, pondering the wisdom of leaving me to care for the teen-age son and the cat for an entire week.

Such is the miracle of modern, plastic drain pipes that the s-curve was quickly disassembled without any tools, the teeny-tiny battery was rescued and properly disposed of, the lives of countless innocent fishes were saved, and the SWAT team intervention was averted.

And the teeny-tiny alarm clock on the teeny-tiny shelf received a new battery and has been set to the actual time. Or something close to it.

But I'm keeping the wire and gum nearby, just in case.

Little House of (Renovation) Horrors

The Poseidon Adventure. Earthquake. The Towering Inferno. Airport. What do these disaster movies all have in common?

Each event was less of a catastrophe than our home remodeling project.

I'm fairly certain our contractor – who has done amazing work – is shaking his head and wondering how he ever got involved in this project of the damned.

I haven't blogged about our setbacks, because I didn't want to anger the Fates of Remodeling. But after yesterday's misadventure, I've decided the fates are obviously so pissed at me, it couldn't get much worse.

Really.

I mean sure, the whole thing could go up in flames, forcing us to rebuild from scratch, but at this point even that couldn't put us much further behind schedule.

So, what was our latest SNAFU? What disaster du jour has me questioning whether that light I thought I saw at the end of this very long, dusty, partially remodeled tunnel was a beacon of hope or an emergency flare?

Yesterday a delivery van got stuck in the mud behind our house.

For more than two hours.

Postponing the delivery and installation of the carpet that will signal the honest to God complete, totally for reals completed, finally finished completion of approximately one-third of our renovation.

And we're only eight months behind schedule.

We used to joke about the house being done in time for The Princess' high school graduation. Last May. Now we joke about it being done before The Prince's graduation. In 2019. These days I reply to that joke with nervous laughter, bordering on hysteria.

So what's the big deal? What's a couple more days? Progress – amazing, beautiful, fantastic work – continues on other parts of the project.

It's symbolic. You see, this is not the first time our yard has swallowed a subcontractor. A skid steer (that's right, a skid steer), got stuck while excavating for the footings last fall.

Footings which, once poured, filled with ground water. And did not drain. Pushing back work until spring. After the ground thawed and eventually firmed up again.

Spring. When The Princess graduated from high school. When the contractor took pity on us and delayed work until after we could have a small reception for her in the garage. The garage which, the day after the party, we filled with the displaced furniture and boxes that are still there.

No, the delivery van getting stuck is just one item on a long list of unexpected challenges and scheduling hiccups. In short, almost anything that could go wrong, has gone wrong. I've watched enough “This Old House” and HGTV to know all remodeling projects have their share of problems. But I have to think we are approaching the point at which even Tommy and Norm, Chip and Joanna, and Jonathan and Drew would throw up their hands and cut their losses.

Despite all the set backs, I try to stay positive. The parts that are finished are beautiful. Things are progressing. It will all be worth it once it's done.

Despite the problems, I try to find the humor in the situation. For most of the summer we had the distinction of being the only house in the neighborhood with a port-o-potty in the front yard.

Talk about yer' curb appeal.

Going Banana (Bars)

There are days I should not be allowed in the kitchen.

Today was one of them.

For lunch, I decided to try out a new recipe (first mistake) for a tuna (second mistake)-noodle casserole. It could be that this recipe, in the hands of any other cook would be just fine, and not the bland, yet colorful, left-overs-for-days nightmare that I created. It could be that I tend to use recipes as “guidelines” rather than “directions” when I am cooking, adapting them to family likes/dislikes and ingredients on hand.

It could be that I completely changed the taste of this casserole by subsituting sauteed, fresh peppers for a jar of roasted peppers (both of which are vegetables and both of which are disliked by the boy child). It could be that I angered the pasta gods by substituting penne pasta for fusilli pasta (potato, potato).

Or it could be that any recipe which combines tuna (which the boy child dislikes), and green beans (see: boy child/vegetables/dislike) was doomed from the start.

The husband, who likes to eat much better than he likes to cook, declared the casserole was “tasty.” This was a bold-faced lie and we both knew it. He continues to lie to me this way because I am currently enjoying a 60% success rate in terms of tasty cooking. I am coming off a string of hits including, but not limited to potato soup, monster bars, and scotcheroos.

The boy child, on the other hand, has not figured out the link between bolstering Mom's ego and a continued supply of monster bars. Within an hour, he was digging through the freezer searching for un-frostbitten pizza rolls.

Undeterred by my lunchtime loss, I decided to try a new recipe for banana cake. “Baking,” unlike “cooking,” is a mystical art that is part chemistry, part sorcery. I make every attempt to follow the recipe carefully, if not obsessively, while baking.

I mashed the bananas and set them aside; I mixed the dry ingredients and set them aside; I creamed the butter until it was light and fluffy. I added the eggs.

Only when I noticed my light and fluffy butter becoming bumpy, clumps of butter surrounded by snotty egg whites, did I realized I had forgotten to cream the sugar and the butter before adding the eggs. During my brief stint as a half-baked home ec teacher I drilled that important step into the minds of my students. But it was too late to turn back. What was the worst that could happen? I knew the worst that could happen, and it did.

Instead of the “smooth, slightly thick batter with some lumps” the recipe said I would have, I had a runny batter with a lot of gloopy, curdy lumps.

I was frustrated, because I had waited all week to try out this recipe. But my frustration was half-hearted, because I am the only one in the house who actually likes banana bars/cakes/bread. And if I'm being honest, the only reason I like them is because I can use up the ripe bananas, relieving some of my guilt over letting them go to waste.

The good news is the banana cake turned out ok. It is banana cake, after all, not brain surgery. And the cake features a thick layer of cream cheese frosting.

Cream cheese frosting makes everything better.

Everything except tuna casserole. (But I wouldn't bet against it.)

(Hot) Flash in the Pan

I was promised hot flashes.

OK, so maybe it wasn't so much a promise as a threat. Or maybe an ominous warning.

But still.

As I sit here waiting for my toes to fall off one by one, because I'm fairly certain my bones have turned to ice and the cold is leeching through the flesh of my little piggies – is that frost forming on my shoes? – a little hot flash is starting to sound good.

I know I should be careful what I wish for. I've heard the horror stories. I've seen the red, sweaty faces. The sudden, desperate self-fanning and shirt flapping. The discreet opening of doors and windows.

And I sympathize. Really. I do. It's just that . . . I can't feel my toes.

I'm not envious. Really, I'm not.

I just want a little of that heat.

Maybe a luke-warm sparkle.

Just enough to put a healthy, pink glow back into my fingers, which have turned white and waxy and numb. A medical website (Canadian. They're experts on cold.) suggests that I can reduce the frequency and intensity of waxy-finger by wearing mittens. Although, I'm not sure how this helps when the cold is coming from the inside of my fingers.

I'm also supposed to decrease stress and anxiety. Nice idea, but I have teenagers. And a husband. And a cat. Stress is my middle name. Really. I had it changed.

And I'm supposed to avoid caffeine.

Quacks.

What good will it do me to be able to feel my fingers if I am cranky and sleepy? Believe me, if I'm cranky, you don't want me to have full control of my fingers. I'll flip you the middle popsicle so fast it will make your head spin. 

The internet also assures me (Threatens? Warns?) that my time is coming. Menopause is as inevitable as death and taxes. Today I may have icicles for fingers and frozen stubs for toes, but tomorrow I could be one Hot Mama. Literally.

Anxiety, insomnia, fatigue, foggy thinking, thin hair, moodiness, food cravings, weight gain . . . apparently I have been menopausal all my life.

Or maybe I am just too damn young to fully appreciate all the exciting changes that are waiting for me. (As one friend asked, “How can I have hot flashes and cramps at the same time?”) After all, I'm only what, 29? 35? 42? Nearly fifteeeeeee-ish? Plus? (See: foggy thinking.)

And maybe Mother Nature and Father Time don't use the same alternate math as I do.

So I'll wait.

Over here by the space heater. With my blankie. And my mittens. In July.

Relentlessly Resolute

I try not to make resolutions, because as soon as I put a title on something (like “resolution”), or make it a conscious decision, BOOM!, the possible becomes impossible. I can be going along just fine, eating healthily, but as soon as I decide to eat healthy, suddenly I find myself surrounded by mountains of empty Oreo packages.

I do much better at doing better when I have no idea what I'm doing.

Which is how I came upon the happy realization that I have, of late, become Relentlessly Positive. Or Annoyingly Optimistic, depending upon your perspective.

This is a rather blatant rip-off of Furiously Happy, a hilarious (yet serious) book by The Bloggess, Jenny Lawson, in which she details her efforts to combat/confront her mental illness by setting out to have as much fun as possible. In my defense, being Relentlessly Positive does not always mean that I am Furiously Happy, only that I am Less Frequently Stressed, and quite often Not As Grumpy As I Could Be.

My accidental descent into Relentless Positivity was an act of self-preservation. Faced with Persistent Pessimism, Wanton Negativity, and Bitter Outbreaks of Generalized Anger – triggered at least in part by contagious political partisan poopy-ism – I decided to focus on the good that is, rather than the bad that might be.

The seeds of positivity were planted last year in a chance encounter at the gym. As I was leaving after a 5:30 am class (still grumbling about hating mornings), a cheerful young man was coming in for his 6:30 am workout. He told me that he made a conscious decision every morning to be in a good mood (even at 5:30).

I found his attitude wonderfully refreshing!

Actually, I thought he was a complete nut job – because it was 6:30 in the morning and I had not yet decided to be Relentlessly Positive. But now, now I see the method to his madness.

When I focus on making the best of a bad situation, or when I stop borrowing trouble by anticipating the worst, or when I ignore things that are just none of my business, I am a lot happier.

Unfortunately, Relentless Positivity does have its drawbacks. In the first place it is exhausting. There are a plethora of Cockeyed Pessimists out there just waiting to harsh your mellow or steal your parking space. And sometimes I get so caught up in ignoring the Negative Nancys (and minding my own business) that I speak without thinking (not an entirely new situation).

For example . . .

I recently took a bread-making class, and as we were mixing our dough the discussion turned to celebrity chefs. Someone mentioned that they used to like Chef FancyPants (not his real name), until they read that he had sex with a bride – not his own – in the kitchen while catering her reception.

Caught up in the powerful Zen of dough kneading and Relentless Positivity, my lips started moving before my brain started working. (See: “I do better when I don't know what I'm doing,” only not so much.)

“Well, these things happen,” I said.

A hush fell across the kitchen; the kind of hush usually reserved for statements such as “I eat kittens for breakfast,” or “I voted for Donald Clinton.”

Still not entirely cognizant of what I had already said, I never the less felt compelled to say more. Unfortunately, I still did not feel compelled to think prior to speaking.

“I mean, Eww!” I continued. “Not in the kitchen!” (For the record, this celebrity chef neither asked for nor received my approval for his actions. But really, the kitchen?)

Just like that, I officially became the Unofficial Craziest Lady in the room. As such, my classmates took to treating me the way people usually treat the extremely socially awkward – speaking slowly, using small words and avoiding eye contact when possible.

Which is all a long way of explaining that as we approach a new year, I (unconsciously) intend to continue to hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and keep my mouth shut about things I can't control.

Unless I don't. In which case I will most likely say things that are Incredibly Inappropriate.

And I am Relentlessly Positive about that.

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'.”