christmas eve

Since the world survived the non-apocalypse, I had to prepare for the next potential uh-oh:  going home for Christmas.   As you may recall, I skipped this adventure at Thanksgiving this year in favor of avoiding both the drive on the 5, and the wrath of the grandma, but I just couldn't bring myself to go full-Scrooge and skip out on my mom on this holiday, the holiest of holy holidays (besides her golden child's [that would be me] birthday).  As I've gotten older, I've ascribed to the notion that the "a little dab'll do ya" mentality completely applies when it comes to going home.  Where once I used to take two weeks off for Christmas and spend nearly the entire time with family, I find less is more-better, for everyone...except Wondermutt, who has a fan club here in the 'burbs of Sac, and as soon as the sun comes up, all of the neighbors will be over here to see him, to get his autograph, to get their pet on, and maybe, if they have time, throw me an, "Oh.  You're here, too?  Huh."  And then go back to adoring the boy wonder.  It's fine, I understand.  He always comes bearing homemade gifts for them and leaves them on their lawns.  I'm not quite as giving.

Wondermutt is comin' to town.

I drove up yesterday, and despite white knuckling it for the last 100 miles or so, it wasn't too bad.  Now, I think in a past life, if there is such a thing, I was a race car driver, because very few things on the road scare me.  I don't even have to turn down the radio when I park, or when I'm looking at directions.  There have only been three times in my life where I have white knuckled it with my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel:  driving from Pullman, WA to Sacramento in winter, through the mountains, on a narrow two lane highway, in a storm, with one windshield wiper (the other one froze to my windshield and then snapped off) in a Saturn coupe; driving in North Carolina through a storm (that was a pre-cursor to a tornado I was trying to outdrive) with hail so large I swore my windshield would break and the body of my Land Rover would be pitted unrecognizably--I actually had to pull over for that one and turned off the radio so God could hear my prayers; and then there was this 100-mile stretch yesterday.  It wasn't just the weather, it was actually a combo of the rain, wind, and the fuck-tards that were going apeshit on the road, which normally wouldn't call for the 10 and 2 approach, but I had the mutt in the car, and when I have another being's life in my hands, that ups the ante.  How would I explain showing up without him to the neighbors, no matter if I was hurt, or on life support myself?  "What happened to Wondermutt?!?" they'd shout in horror.  There'd be public outcry.  They'd cancel Christmas forever.  I'd cancel Christmas forever.  Drama.  Anyway.  We made it.  Crisis averted.


I'm back in my old room from high school, and it doesn't feel like much has changed, except it feels more frilly and flowery--I guess that's the mom go-to motif, you can never have too many flowers or frills, or tote bags, or pictures up of your children when they were going through their awkward phase (years 6 - 26, those years are the same for everyone, right?), but you still think they were cute...which is impossible because clearly they were not.  Because no kid who was missing two random teeth in the front, had cheeks the size of grapefruits, eyes that seemed to looked two different directions in some pictures and eyebrows that wrapped around their entire forehead is cute.  And these pictures that parents lie about only start family arguments and thievery will eventually ensue.  And then, when they comment on how nice the fire in the fireplace feels but later in the evening say, "where did you find the wood or paper to start it with," after everyone is warm and cozy, it'll be noticed that those pictures are missing, and laughs will be laughed (by the culprit) and then--war will break out.  Fingers will be pointed, shouts will be shouted, babies will cry, vows of "never again!" will be vowed, dogs will bark, sirens will wail, mothers will sob, doors will be slammed...it's all part of the miracle of Christmas.  Hooray!  What fun!  Who wants pie?

I will say, in all my destitution, when I do come home, it does begin to look and feel more like Christmas.  After all, home is where I can get the full experience; there's a real fake tree, lights inside and outside, decorations galore, one, two, maybe even three baby Jesuses, wrapped presents (Santa Claus still leaves gifts in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve--this is almost contractual and can never end), there's central heating and even food in the cupboards AND refrigerator.  I'm even sleeping in a bed that's in the shape of a sleigh.  And I happen to know where I can get a reindeer on very short notice.......

And so, I make the drive and hope for the best, brace for the rest, and pray that Belvedere is on sale.

Merry Christmas!