Beating Around the Christmas Tree

Charlotte is in a panic and so am I. There goes another joyous holiday up in smoke thanks to our ding-a-ling brother.

Or maybe not.

Charlotte reports no whining, pleading, all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-this-one-small-gift-of-my-family-together-who-knows-how-many-Christmases-I-have-left phone calls from Estelle. And I have none as well. I was vacuuming up pounds of pine needles when she rang my cell phone, and I missed the call/dodged the bullet. But when I listened to the message, there was only the usual longitude, latitude, price of gas, mile-marker, times of departure and estimated arrival, and traffic situation reports, but no unsolicited lunatic ramblings about the pickle my brother is in thanks again to his shrew wife.

She is set to arrive at Charlotte's at about 2:30. I expect to be there at 3. Maybe a few minutes early to derail any pregame lunacy that will likely be the result of my brother’s situation looming and a pre-Charlotte visit to Bill’s son’s widow who was as on The Outs as I was last year. An encounter fraught with the potential for disaster for sure. And bloodshed. And arrest warrants. Happy fucking holidays. Your bail is set at 1 million dollars.

Scott and his younger daughter arrive in time to help Hil straighten her hair, and Pat to pick a suitable ensemble, and to calm my nerves, which are shredded and frayed like a much abused cat toy.

After carefully packing the cars, we head in the direction of Charlotte’s and Jack’s and I am coaching the children on the way, hoping that they only minimally insult Estelle and Bill with their unedited comments. I educate them on the beauty of gift receipts and explain the long term value of graciousness. Admit that I am not entirely sure what is going on with Grandmomstella’s hair and no, I don’t understand much of what Pop Pop Bill says, either. It is a lot to absorb in a 15 minute car ride.

We get there and Charlotte greets me at the door. Taking my tray of cookies and Maple Walnut spread from my hands, she leans in for a kiss and tells me, “They are already at it. Already rehashed the visit to you at the cottage two summers ago and are currently arguing about what to do about Joe.” Yay. Is it too late to turn around?

I introduce Scott to my mother and Bill. Scott remembers her from her appearance at school in her nightgown and rusted out car (who wouldn’t?). She doesn’t remember him (senility). Then she reintroduces Bill to Scott, as though I’d forgotten to.

No, I did introduce them. It was a quick cover for being completely grossed out the door that Bill had tried to kiss me on the lips.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.

My brother does that. It completely grosses Charlotte and me out. My father did not kiss my lips. Why should my brother and step-father think it is OK? I don’t even want Pat to develop that habit. Only one man kisses my lips. And that is Scott. As it should be. A kiss on the cheek offends no one. A kiss on the mouth is another story altogether.

And this story is off to a rocky start.