19 December 2010

My dad has five brothers. Four of them have kids; the fifth has a wife who sings in a classic rock band in which he plays guitar. We get together the week before Christmas. Grandma, who is 81 and all there, advises me to stay out of the kitchen, so I visit with her and check out a fourteen year old cousin's fingernail painting skills on her iphone. There is wine but not everybody drinks, and there is potluck supper. My uncles get excited about bean bake and cinnamon buns. There are gifts for the little ones, who go totally bananas for football jerseys, electronic drum sets, and a baby is a wicker basinet. Grandma gives everybody jam and hand knit dishcloths. Then everybody sings, with the guitar and without the guitar. My uncle Bruce, who is hot in an athletic, clean-cut, got five kids kind of way, is making Crown Royal and ginger ale so I get in on that. The sugar sobers me up a bit and I think he's making mine weak until I have a second that makes the room threaten to spin. I am sitting on the couch with Jack who is rolling his eyes at Courtney, who is talking about "food babies" and they are hilarious.

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