Joy? No. Hell.

I may have shared this before, but it is worth repeating: I remember when my mother was about 40 and she'd said, "I love being the age I am. I don't have to take any crap from anyone."

Let's be clear. Mom was never the type to take a lot of grief sitting down. Someone who chose to rattle her cage would only ever attempt it one time. Mom's obituary will not contain the words "shy and retiring." No shrinking violet, she.

Well, in her 40s, Mom was just revving her engines. In her 70s, Mom is a well-oiled machine.

Mom and I, if you remember, had exchanged little nasty-grams while I was off being a good citizen and serving on jury duty. My patience waning, I'd told her I had no interest in her particular brand of craziness and she should cease and desist any further contact. Especially the nasty variety. I can get my fill of nasty anywhere. Who needs it from my mother?

Pissed beyond redemption, she'd set her sites on Charlotte and had tried to turn her against me. Mom is a bully that way. I can almost hear her saying "I'll show you, you little pipsqueak. I'll ruin you. You may as well leave town."

And as they always do, while this verbal volleyball match of who said what to whom and why, and Who Shot John, and which person commmitted the worst foul against whom and is therefore most deserving of the gas chamber, the holidays roll around.

Joy of joys. Unprecedented awkward family togetherness on the horizon.

Or not.

Charlotte's intestines turn into a Jacob's Ladder of silly string at the mere mention of Christmas. She almost always hosts our Christmas Eve gathering. A carefully orchestrated collection of beloved family, family members we'd sooner choke than converse with, and friends to whom our family dynamics need no explaining and who will be holding a fresh drink and rolling their eyes with us at all the appropriate Kodak moments.

But this year is different. I am on Estelle's Shit List (which is longer than the Naughty List and the Nice List COMBINED)and she is on my Shoot On Sight list. Bill barely tolerates any of us on the best of days and within an hour of the commencement of the festivities will be ass-faced and slurring obscenities about me loudly enough for me to hear. Loudly enough for most of the residents of the Asian Pacific islands to hear. My brother Joe is persona non grata and has been for years. There may as well be an elephant in the room. Two elephants if he brings his shrew wife. Two elephants in coordinating corduroy Disney attire, most likely. And their unruly progeny. Get out the Clorox wipes.

But I have a solution.

What if I host Christmas Eve?

I have no moral or ethical issue with excluding my brother. The Blessed Mother herself could step from behind the ficus tree and petition my cooperation. I'd hold my ground.

Mom and I are not speaking. She's not even getting a Christmas card much less an invitation. And she won't give me the satisfaction of reaching out to say she'd like to come when she learns of the plan we've hatched. And it's not like Bill even wants to come. Excluding him plays right into his hands.

Charlotte's angst is in overdrive. What will Mom say? She'll know we are in collusion.

She'll know she's been outsmarted, that's what. That is the beauty of it.

I can practically hear Charlotte smile. Signed, sealed, delivered. Christmas Eve is at my house.