I like a lot of things about my parents.


I like that they're wishy-washy -- or at least that they were, thirty-odd years ago, when they got divorced... and then remarried the next year. Apparently, they had 'reconcilable differences'.


I like that there's one of each gender, just to get both perspectives. Not that I have anything against same-sex couples, mind you. Feel free to bat for whichever team, from whichever side of the plate, and wearing whatever uniform you like, so far as I'm concerned. But it's sort of nice to be able to make a tuna casserole and discuss the merits of the no-huddle offense, is all I'm saying.


I also like that they don't live so close that they could unexpectedly drive past and see the stupid shit that I might be doing in front of the house, but also not so far away that I'd have to, for instance, rent the space shuttle to visit them. Delta Airlines and I have a route all worked out; the status quo is working out just swimmingly.


However, at this time of year, one of the things I like most about my parents is that they really, when it gets right down to it, have no idea what I want for Christmas.


Oh, they do fine, really. They know I have this penchant -- really more of a fetish at this point, I fear -- for striped rugby shirts. My wife is still railing against my fashion myopia -- she'll buy me sweaters, and pullovers, and turtlenecked contraptions, trying to drag my wardrobe into the new millennium -- but my parents know its a lost cause. I like to think they sigh heavily as they browse through the American Eagle catalog, shrug their shoulders, and tell each other, 'At least he's not into the Goth clothes, dear.'


They also come up some appropriate doodads and trinkets -- I dig hot sauces and hoppy beers, thanks for asking -- that are much appreciated. But after that, they're sometimes nonplussed, I think. We haven't shared a house for nearly two decades, and my tastes change -- except in shirtwear, apparently -- as quickly as a fourteen-year-old girl's with a Teen Beat subscription and a MySpace habit.


So most years, the presents from the 'rents include a nifty gift card -- to Amazon, or somewhere similar. Like this year, it was to Amazon. Which is almost exactly like Amazon, except that I put it in italics the second time. Amazon. See how that works?


What that means, of course, is that my Christmas season gets extended a few days. Plus, I get to open some goodies that I picked out myself. This year's batch came in the mail today, and I couldn't be gigglier if I had on boxers made of ostrich feathers and a snootful of nitrous. Huzzah!


On the other hand, it does lead to a bit of serious self-reflection, based on the merchandise I've selected. For instance, my father-in-law bought me a book this year. Nice book; I had it on my wish list. Serious, non-fiction book -- eleven hundred pages long. No lie. I'm on page fourteen right now. Shaddup.


Meanwhile, one of the books I dug out of my Amazon -- sorry, Amazon -- package tonight was approximately thirty pages long. With pictures. Cartoon pictures. And in the very front, it had an otherwise blank page, on which was written in large, black letters:

Funny how Christmastime brings back memories, eh?


In my case, of course, they're snarky, head-shaking, annoying memories, but still -- 'tis the season.


So, let's pull one of these mental gems out of the vault, and I'll get your opinion on what I should've done while I'm at it.


Now, before we get to the specifics, I should mention that my mother's side of the family has a Christmas Eve gathering every year. And the whole frigging clan comes out for it -- grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, the works. In my family's case, that's still not an enormous boatload of people -- maybe twenty or so. Still, it's more relatives than you can shake a stick at -- or, in fact, beat with a stick. Trust me. I've tried it.


You should also know that this charming little party is the only time each year that I see most of these people. The parents, I'll run into another couple of times, and I'll spend some extra QT with the grandparents, but for all the others, that's it. That's all we get of each other.


(And, in the overwhelming majority of cases, all we need of each other. There are very few people in my family that you'd want to have in anything other than 'small doses'.


Present company almost certainly included, but you're already ass-deep in me. Hell, you're a dozen paragraphs in already. Sucker.)


Anyway, that's the background -- party every year, whole family there, never see them otherwise. Fine. Now we're on the same page.


So, the past few years, one of my aunts has hosted the soiree, which kicks off around six in the evening. And here's what happened two years ago, on a chilly Christmas Eve:


I arrived at the party, with my wife and parents.


I hung up our coats, and walked into the kitchen, where aforesaid aunt was tending to something on the stove.


I greeted my grandparents, gave them each a hug, and walked back to my aunt to say hello. And here's the very first thing she said to me in a full year:


'Well, hi there! It's good to... wow! You've really put on weight, haven't you?'


Now first of all, she was probably right. I've never gone and completely let myself go, but sure, I was probably a little heavier than the year before. And certainly bigger than back in high school, which might be the last time the woman had seen me for more than thirty seconds at a time.


But still... damn! That's just fucking rude. And she's not exactly goddamned svelte herself, dammit. Hell, I've got eight inches of height on her, but she's in my neighborhood on the scales, I'm betting. Oh, yeah. She ain't small.


What I still can't figure out, though, nearly two years later, is what the correct response to that statement is. For the record, my response was to frown, walk away, and eat very little at dinner that night. Have I mentioned how much I fucking love Christmas, by the way?


Anyway, I don't know quite what I should have said to her. But I've narrowed it down to a few choices:

• 'No, sorry, hon, I haven't. Maybe your eyes have just gotten fatter.'
  

• 'Maybe I have, dammit. Now gimme some of them 'taters, bitch. Taters! Now!!'
  

• 'Yeah, I've gotten bigger... but damn, girl, look at you! What, are you smuggling sacks of broccoli in those pants?'
  

• 'Hey, it's a glandular thing. Or I've been sick, or something. You don't know. Shut up!'
  

• 'Yeah, I guess I get real food up in Boston, unlike the bullshit you're about to slop in front of us.'
  

• 'And 'hello' to you, sunshine! And a big fat hairy 'Up yours', too!'

I'm thinking. At least they'd be better -- read: snarkier -- than what I actually did. But I suppose this way, subsequent parties are a bit easier to get through. It's all for the good of the family, I tell myself.



Still. That was bullshit. And I wanna know what you think the best reply would be. 'Cause if sistah's eyes got fat again this year, and she starts in on me... well, this time, I'm gonna be ready for her. Parties-to-come be damned -- bitch gonna hear it. Oh yeah.

It's that time again. The season of rabid and unbridled Christmas shopping is upon us. For many people, this time of year involves long hours standing in register lines, wandering through mall aisles, and beating the hell out of old ladies hoping to buy the game console you've been eyeballing.


Well, not me. The only lines I'm waiting in are at the bar, and my wandering is limited to finding where the hell I parked my car. As for beating old ladies -- well, a guy's got to get some exercise.


What am I going to do, run on a treadmill? I don't think so.


As for Christmas shopping, I'm firmly committed to doing all of my gift grabbing online. I'll get my consumer freak on at Amazon and Woot.com, or I won't get it on at all. I'm not above giving pocket lint as Christmas presents. It'd beat those Michael Bolton CDs and 'All I Ever Needed to Know...' books I used to give as a kid, at least.


Barring an unfortunate internet outage or sudden crippling carpal tunnel syndrome, though, it shouldn't come to that. There's still plenty of time to order trinkets and doodads that nobody wants, and have them delivered before Christmas. With a little luck -- and two bucks a pop -- I can probably even get them pre-wrapped.


Of course, they won't be wrapped properly. I'll have to rip the corners and wrinkle up the bottoms a little bit. And if there are hand-tied bows -- forget about it. Those are coming off. If the things are wrapped too perfectly, people will know I had nothing to do with them. They'll get suspicious. They might call the bomb squad. Again. Not so festive.


I suppose there are downsides to shopping online. The merchandise might arrive damaged or broken -- even more broken than if I'd dragged it home from the mall myself. And the pants I buy for my Aunt Rhonda might not fit. But at least I don't have to wander the mall looking for an eggplant-shaped woman to try them on for size. I walked into the dressing room too early one year, and it took years off my life. Honestly, that's time I can never have back.


So it's all-online, all the time for me. If I order all the random Christmas crap I need to give out by the weekend, it'll be here in plenty of time for the big day. And I won't have to step foot in a mall, or a parking lot -- or heaven forbid, a dressing room -- for the rest of the year. And frankly, that's the best damned present I could ever get.