It's the holidays, I toyed with several possible topics to share and I've settled on:

The Twelve Days of Christmas

12: I get off the plane from Las Vegas having not slept the night before to see my wonderful, adoring mother practically bouncing up and down in the airport waiting to scoop me into a tearful embrace and welcome me home. I haven't slept, and it's only been a month since I've last seen her so I'm not feeling the emotional reunion thing. What do I, the considerate, understanding, always patient daughter say first? "Mom, don't hug me and cry on me. I'm tired." I know. I hate me too.

11: I bake two pies.

10: I suffer panic attacks because I'm trapped in a house with my parents with no car, no cigarettes and a uterus that is poisoning my body with estrogen and progesterone. I survive panic attacks by stuffing my face with as much food as I can find. And there's a lot.

9: I attend party #1 as we celebrate my dad and my cousin's birthday. Family members shout at each other across the room because "inside" voices are a recessive gene in our genetics, my dad sticks a lighter next to my ear (and hair) and lights it because he's a pyromaniac, Christmas music plays on repeat in the background, while two dogs on the back porch bark and whine over it all.

8: I eat a cookie.

7: I attend party #2 where we celebrate the first family Christmas with one side of the family. We open windows because people on one side of the room are hot, while those in front of the windows freeze. Those who are hot never agree to switch seats with those in front of the windows. We then eat but pass food from the same ends so that those on the other end always get the dregs, but still have to find room for all the empty containers to sit.

6: I eat a piece of cake.

5: I attend party #3 where we celebrate the immediate family Christmas and my stocking includes cough drops. Expectant parents (my siblings) receive a DVD about miscarriage and a marriage that breaks apart. My father is no longer allowed to shop at the Dollar Store and assume responsibility for our stockings.

4: I eat a piece of pie.

3: I attend party #4 where we celebrate Christmas with the other side of the family. After lunch we have "choir rehearsal" and "band rehearsal" where chosen members of the family are given instruments they haven't played in five, fifteen, and twenty-nine years and we put on a bit of a concert for each other. My enthusiasm on the snare drum overrules the single flute and my dad quits after the flugelhorn defeats him. It's not a band until at least one person walks out. I sing soprano in the "choir" which is unfortunate for me, the family, and all passer-bys who travel down our block.

2: I travel through fog that has only been seen previously in The Mist--a horrible movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel. It completely surrounds my hometown blanketing the frozen fields and melts the ice enough so that a layer of water sits atop the remaining four inches. I slip and land on my shin for the first time since traveling home.

1: I eat another cookie.

Merry Christmas kids. It ain't over till you've celebrated it at least three times and gained ten pounds. Someday I will write a movie script off of this and make millions by shamelessly cashing in on all of my family's wonders, oddities, and personality. For now I simply share with you.