It’s the Most Wonderful Craziest Time of the Year
Thanksgiving
“Should I expect the usual suspects at dinner tonight?” Kline questioned from the driver’s seat with a smirk, and immediately, I sighed.
Thick and dry, it was weightier than my normal sighs by about 2,500 pounds—roughly the cumulative mass of the band of relatives I was expecting to encounter imminently.
After spending the early afternoon eating a Thanksgiving lunch with Kline’s parents, my day already felt twenty-six hours long, and, unfortunately for me, it was only five o’clock. T-minus seven hours to go.
“Considering it’s Thanksgiving with my crazy a-s-s family, I imagine the whole gang will be there.” Bad words had to be spelled out when your back seat had a curious five-year-old and an impressionable one-and-a-half-year-old ready to repeat anything that filled their little ears. Our friends Thatch and Cassie Kelly had already expanded my children’s vocabulary enough for a lifetime.
My husband chuckled softly beside me, and I briefly considered taking my cuticle scissors out of my purse and stabbing his bubble of good humor repeatedly.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my family, but generally speaking, the holidays—any holiday—and my family didn’t have a good track record. It was challenging enough getting through our monthly family dinners with my parents, but when extended relatives were involved, shit never failed to hit the proverbial fan. Bloody carnage where a finger used to be, septic backups, drunken Christmas tree tipping, and a near house fire thanks to a turkey in the deep fryer—you name it, we’d had it.
“Mommy! Mommy!” Julia called from the back seat. “Has it been ten minutes yet? Are we at Mimi and Papa’s yet?”
Mimi and Papa, otherwise known as my mother and father, or Dick and Savannah Cummings, were two of my first-born daughter’s favorite people on the planet. So much so that I often noticed her mimicking their behavior.
The first time I’d picked up on it, I’d nearly dropped dead in terror.
“Almost, sweetheart,” I said evenly—even though I’d answered the same question fifteen times already. My calm exterior was a maternal façade. On the inside, I was slowly unraveling. A mother could only answer the same question so many times before she started to break. When the masking tape of propriety and lies holding me together gave way, everyone near me had better look out.
“Ugh! I’m tired of being in the car!” Julia whined again, and I shot venomous eyes at Kline.
You did this to me, they yelled. He smiled. Bastard.
What was it with children and car rides?
Or more than that, why did their sense of time always seem to move at warp speed?
Ten minutes equated to thirty seconds in their little minds.
Of course, Julia, my precocious and adorable five-year-old, was going through a bit of a stubborn phase that made all time seem painfully twisted, regardless of whether we were in the car or not. For the past six months or so, she couldn’t let a moment pass without loudly voicing her disapproval when she did not like something—and she apparently didn’t like much of anything anymore.
Seriously, guys, this little phase is driving me up the wall.
It’s really bad with a capital B and the word f-u-c-k-i-n-g in the front.
Taking Julia on a trip to the grocery store? Forget about it. I might as well attempt to push a feral cat around in a cart filled with milk and tuna. And don’t even get me started on what happens on the days she doesn’t feel like going to school. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to get the little girl from The Exorcist bathed, dressed, and ready to head out the door? Sounds pretty terrible, huh?
My fellow moms, please pray for me. Lord knows I can’t handle another thirteen years of little Miss Diva’s attitude.
“Momma,” Evie calmly announced from her rear-facing car seat sitting beside her sister.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Hi!” she exclaimed simply, snorting several giggles immediately after.
“Hi, Evie,” I responded and silently thanked the heavens above that my littlest child was content being a calm and happy little lady—so far.
“Daddy!”
“Hi, Evie,” Kline answered immediately, his blue eyes glimmering with love as he glanced in the rearview mirror at his two girls.
Our eighteen-month-old giggled in response and then exclaimed, “Lia! Lia! Lia! Lo youuuuuu, Lia!”
“Love you, Evie,” Julia answered sweetly.
I guessed even little Miss Diva couldn’t be annoyed by her baby sister’s love.
I glanced behind me to find the girls holding hands, and my heart stretched tight with love. It was moments like these that reminded you why you wanted to be a parent in the first place. Between the chaos and stubborn phases and the sleepless nights, you could always count on those little, precious slivers of time where unconditional love for your children consumed you.
After all, God had to have something in place to prevent mother-on-child homicide and facilitate the survival of the human race.
The familiar tree-lined circular driveway and white brick of my parents’ home came into view, and the sweet reminiscence of childhood memories and the stomach-clenching anxiety that always seemed to occur during the holidays hit me all at once. It was like whispering “home sweet home” and grabbing the “oh shit” handle at the same time.
“All right,” Kline announced as he switched off the ignition. “We’re here.”
“Yay!” Julia shouted and immediately started unbuckling her own seat belt. “Mimi and Papa’s!”
Kline turned toward me and placed his hand tenderly on my shoulder. “Ready?”
I shook my head, and he grinned.
“It’ll be fine, Georgie,” he reassured, but I called bullshit with a raise of my eyebrow.
“You and I both know holidays with my family never end fine.”
Take last Christmas, for example. After we’d eaten turkey fried in beer—only my father, Dick Cummings, would be crazy enough to make another attempt at this after the fire of 2007—my entire family had proceeded to get into a screaming match about the inner workings of the Twilight series. Team Edward or Team Jacob might seem innocent enough, but what should have been a simple debate merely provided a domino effect into every issue we had ever had with one another. How a fictitious vampire love story served as a catalyst for an all-out family brawl was beyond me, but the night had ended with half of my family storming out before the presents were even opened and Julia crying the whole way home.
Disaster, I tell you. It was always a fucking disaster.
“If anyone brings up Twilight or your uncle Donnie tries to discuss politics or, God forbid, your aunt Rhonda tries to sell us items from her most recent pyramid scheme, I’ll be the first to get the girls packed up, and we’ll blow this popsicle stand.”
See? Even my husband doesn’t want to relive the Twilight fiasco of last year.
“Promise?”
Kline slid a loose lock of hair behind my ear and kissed my cheek. “Promise, baby.”
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Get me outta here!” Julia screeched as her little hands went apeshit on the child-locked back door.
“Love you,” my husband whispered through the pounding beat of my rapidly escalating blood pressure. He pressed a quick peck to my lips before hopping out of the driver’s seat and unleashing the caged animal—aka our five-year-old—from the back seat.
Quick as a whip, Julia sprinted across the driveway until she reached the stoop of my parents’ front door and started a secondary assault on its—thankfully—solid wood.
At a much more normal pace, I slid out of the passenger seat and unbuckled Evie from her car seat. She smiled a full-toothed grin and wrapped her little hands around my neck as I lifted her out of the car.
Two seconds later, her little hands reached out for her father, and he happily pulled her into his arms. Evie was a total daddy’s girl. I couldn’t blame her, though; I loved my husband something fierce too. Always doting, always tender, and never failing to show his love, Kline Brooks was the best father and husband a woman could ask for. If anyone was lucky in our relationship, it was for sure me.
By the time we reached the door, my dad already had Julia on his hip and a big grin slung across his face. “Savannah! The Brookses are here!” he called behind him, and my mother’s face appeared over his shoulder mere seconds later.
“Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Mimi!” Julia squealed and hopped into her grandmother’s arms.
“Oh my goodness, I swear you’ve grown two inches and gotten even prettier since the last time I saw you!”
Julia giggled. “You sos silly, Mimi! You just saws me yesterdays!”
Don’t ask me why, but my five-year-old had a thing for adding the letter S to the majority of her words, even the non-plural ones. And no, it wasn’t the product of a lisp. These S’s were completely voluntary and random in their timing—at least, I hadn’t been able to discern a pattern.
My mom smiled and kissed her oldest granddaughter on the nose before setting her to her feet. With Evie now being carried by my dad, Julia ran into the foyer, and the rest of us followed behind.
I guess it’s not off to too bad of a start…
Kline smiled down at me as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led us into the living room. The instant we stepped into the room, we were greeted with hellos and happy Thanksgiving wishes from everyone sitting around the fire and television that was currently blaring a football game.
I looked around the room and took stock. The usual suspects—as my husband so eloquently described them—were, in fact, all here.
Granny Cummings. Uncle Donnie, Aunt Rhonda, and their four sons—and my cousins—Randy, Ralphie, Ricky, and Raymond. Two of whom were married and had their spouses with them.
Is it obvious my aunt Rhonda really likes names that start with R?
And dick?
Four kids, guys.
Dick and Savannah’s cozy living room was packed. I silently prayed everyone would be on their very best and disaster-free behavior.
“Where’s Will and Melody and my favorite niece?” I asked once I realized my brother and his family were nowhere to be found. We needed them to stabilize the normalcy equilibrium!
“Dr. Obscene won’t make it tonight,” my father answered loudly as he cleared Randy and Ricky out of the way and plopped down onto the couch. The man had no filter, and ever since Will had starred in The Doctor Is In—a crazy-popular reality docuseries about his career as an obstetrician, good ol’ Dick wouldn’t let the outrageous nickname die.
“Will is on call tonight,” my mom kindly added, “so they stopped by earlier for a light Thanksgiving lunch with your dad and me.”
That bastard! He probably wasn’t even on call. He just didn’t want to deal with the insanity that followed our father’s side of the family around like a fucking tail.
I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and sent my traitor brother a quick text.
Me: You dirty liar! You’re not even on call, are you? You’re just putting your sanity above mine like a narcissist.
Will: Reread that text and tell me who sounds like the real narcissist. Happy Thanksgiving, Georgie! Love you!
Me, self-centered? As if!
Me: Let me guess, you’re on call for Christmas too…
Will: Well…
Me: I kind of hate you right now, William.
Will: Love you too, Gigi!
Me: Ugh. Give Mel and my favorite niece a kiss for me.
Will: No kiss for me?
Me: Shove off.
Will: Advice: Don’t stay past dessert. Uncle Donnie started drinking as soon as he got there—right as we were leaving—four hours ago. We both know Uncle Donnie, and that much beer makes for a bad combination.
Me: If it were up to me, I wouldn’t stay past appetizers.
Will: Hahahahahahaha
Me: Shut up, asshole.
My brother was always my buffer at these shindigs. If Granny started hounding me about something ridiculous, I’d just mention something awful Will had done. And when Uncle Donnie passed beer number ten, I’d throw Will into the pit of doom like a virgin sacrifice and run.
How in the hell was I going to survive without him?
We had been at my parents’ for all of twenty minutes when the first flood of anxiety overflowed my veins, spilling out into my body and urging that claustrophobic, eye-twitchy sensation I’d come to associate with holidays and my family.
Uncle Donnie was currently motorboating Aunt Rhonda in the kitchen while Dick and Savannah looked on. They’d made a bet that the action didn’t actually make the sound of a marine motor, and Uncle Donnie had set about proving them wrong. Raymond followed his wife past the doorway, currently blocking my view, thankfully, but then started humping the air behind her. Ricky and Ralphie snickered from their spot on the fireplace hearth.
“How much longer do we need to be here?” I whispered to my husband behind gritted teeth. He just grinned, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and tucked me into his side.
“Baby, we haven’t even eaten dinner yet.”
“I know, but maybe we can make up an excuse to leave early,” I whispered back. “Maybe I can convince Julia to act like she’s sick so we all have to leave?”
Kline raised an amused brow.
“Fine,” I sighed. “I won’t bring our five-year-old into it. But I know I can definitely fake a stomach bug.”
It was sad that on Thanksgiving, a day meant to remind us of all of our blessings and the wonderful things in our lives, I was silently wondering if there was some type of fake emergency I could come up with so that Kline, the girls, and I could escape without trauma but…did I mention my uncle’s face was fully seated in my aunt’s breasts?
“Georgia,” Kline whispered in my ear, a little laugh roughening his mostly smooth voice, “I love you endlessly, and I can sense your desperation, but you and I both know you’re a shit liar. We’d never make it out of here unquestioned.”
I frowned dramatically.
“Not to mention, even though your family is batshit crazy, we shouldn’t dip out on them in the middle of Thanksgiving.”
Why did my husband have to be so fucking noble all the time?
Normally, it was one of my favorite qualities of his, but not today. Today, I needed him to be less magnanimous and more let’s get the fuck out of here.
I groaned, and he only held me tighter, a small smirk kissing his lips.
While Julia and Evie appeared content with playing Barbies on the floor of the living room—mercifully oblivious to the orgy in the kitchen—I silently tried my damnedest to be thankful our girls weren’t screaming and pulling each other’s hair out and find my happy place.
Only growing up with a brother, I’d realized quickly with my two girls that sisters were an enigma—one minute fighting, and the next the best of friends. You never knew what you were going to get.
“Georgia, honey,” my mother beckoned me from the kitchen. I turned slowly, peeking minutely out one eye to try to avoid further scarring myself for life. Luckily, the only pie in sight was pumpkin, and my mother was sliding it gracefully into the oven.
“Yes?”
“Mind pouring Granny another glass of wine?”
I glanced back to the recliner in the other corner of the living room to find my Granny guzzling the rest of the wine in her glass, her lips already stained a deep purple from who fucking knows how many glasses of Merlot she’d already consumed.
Her eyes met mine, and she raised her glass in the air. “Snap, snap, Georgie.”
Hell’s bells. Granny was drunk, and we hadn’t even started dinner yet.
“Sure thing, Granny,” I muttered and left Kline in the living room to walk into the kitchen and grab my father’s eighty-eight-year-old mother more booze.
Upon arrival in the kitchen, I noticed something far scarier than my aunt and uncle’s PDA—my mother’s normal display of food was nonexistent. I glanced around the counters feverishly, but they were startlingly empty. No mashed potatoes or stuffing or turkey or any and all of the other delicious food staples that signified Thanksgiving dinner.
“Uh…do you need help with anything, Mom?” I asked, and she shook her head as she pulled the cork on a fresh bottle of Merlot.
Fuck, I hoped Granny hadn’t already finished off bottle number one by herself. She was known for having a loose and inappropriate mouth once alcohol came into play, and my cousins would do nothing more than egg her on.
“Nope.” She shook her head. “Granny insisted on handling Thanksgiving dinner this year.”
I looked around the empty counters again, my skepticism growing. I didn’t see any fucking food.
“Apparently,” my mom went on, “she managed to get a very famous New York chef to make our dinner. Isn’t that a wonderful treat this year?”
A renowned chef dropping everything to cook dinner for my family on Thanksgiving of all days? It all sounded pretty fucking sketchy if you asked me.
Growing agitated at the thought of no food to cut the effects of all the booze, I took a quick glance into the dining room, where only empty dishes, glasses, plates, and cutlery sat. “Uh…okay…but…where is the chef, and where the hell is the food?”
“Granny said the food will be delivered at six p.m. on the dot.”
I squinted in confusion. “So…who exactly is this famous chef?”
My mother shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I thought it was really thoughtful of Granny to offer to handle the food this year. It’s been nice not having to spend the whole day cooking. Your father has quite enjoyed it too,” she added and waggled her eyebrows. “He definitely worked up an appetite for Thanksgiving this morning and this afternoon.”
“Hell yes!” Uncle Donnie cheered, slapping my father with a resounding high five.
It was times like these that I wished I had one of those marm-y moms that were uptight and could barely spell the word sex, much less say anything about sex out loud. But that wasn’t my reality. Savannah Cummings was a certified sex therapist and world-renowned over-sharer.
“Wow. Thanks, Mom. That’s exactly what I wanted to be thinking about right before dinner.”
She waved me off with a grin. “Sex and intimacy are good for the soul and your marriage, honey. Speaking of which, how are things between you and Kline? Is the sex still—”
“Everything’s good, Mom.” I cut her off and held up Granny’s newly filled glass of wine. “I better get this glass of Merlot to Granny before she starts yelling at my kids about empty glasses being for pansy-asses.”
Honestly, I didn’t know which was worse: feeding Granny more booze, or talking about new-age sex positions with my mother. It seemed like a lose-lose situation to me, and the only obvious option was self-preservation. Granny was a grown-ass woman, and if she wanted to get all boozed up and spout nonsense during dinner, that was her business. I’d just have to pray no one else’s “nonsense,” as she put it, pushed her out of control.
“Here, Gran,” I said and carefully handed her the glass.
“Geez, it took you long enough,” she muttered. “I thought I might die of old age before you made it in here.”
Boy, my granny is only getting sweeter with each passing year.
I forced a smile to my lips and moved to the opposite side of the room, far away from the crotchety old lady guzzling wine. Finding a spot between Kline and my father, I attempted to enjoy the football game, and from the looks of it, Seattle was kicking Minnesota’s ass.
I’d never been a huge fan of professional football, but ever since I’d started working as the Mavericks’ Director of Marketing, I’d grown to enjoy it. Well, at least more than I used to. To be honest, I still didn’t really understand the game, but I sure as shit knew how to market the team. When it came to filling the stadium with fans and gaining new endorsements for my players, I’d become a goddamn professional.
But understanding the game itself was more of a work in progress—one that might take eternity to complete.
Sure seems like I need some Team Edward now.
“You idiots! What are you doing!” my uncle Donnie shouted toward the television while my dad cheered. “Yes! That’s it!”
As a result, venomous looks were exchanged.
Dick and Donnie were diehard fans for whatever team the other hated. It didn’t matter who was playing or that nothing of actual substance was at stake, my dad and his brother cheered for their chosen team like they’d been fans their entire lives.
“Man, it’s not looking good for your boys, Don. Your quarterback might as well be standing around with his dick in his hands.”
“Shut up, Dick!”
My dad just grinned, loving every damn minute of his brother’s misery. It was a lifelong urge for brotherly competition that wouldn’t die until they did. Unfortunately for everyone else in the house, it oftentimes turned ugly.
Donnie jumped as his player went down, and I flinched unconsciously as visions of a sporting match of our own—though, less football and more blood sport—played out in my head.
For the love of God, Dad, stop taunting Uncle Donnie…he’s got four giant sons as backup, and all you’ve got is me.
Just as a commercial break finally eased the tension in the room—as well as the knot in my chest—the doorbell rang.
Fluffing great. Who’s this now?
Granny hooted, slamming the recliner down and startling my attention to her. A smile curved her lips as she glanced at her watch. “Six o’clock on the dot! Dinner is here!”
Curious, and still skeptical—read: terrified—about the dinner situation, I hopped out of my seat and headed into the entry with my grandmother not too far behind.
A young, twentysomething man stood on the front porch with way too much innocence. He didn’t look at all how I’d imagined a renowned chef in New York City did. He’d need twenty more layers of wrinkles and badassery. My brow pinched nervously. “Hello, my name is Michael, and I have a Meals on Wheels delivery for a—” he paused for a brief moment and glanced at his clipboard “—Sadie Cummings.”
I’m sorry, had he just said Meals on Wheels? As in, the food delivery service for the elderly and disabled?
My gaze moved to his fleece jacket, the logo threaded carefully into the right side of his chest.
Ah, fucking hell.
My granny had just illegally utilized a humanitarian community resource for our Thanksgiving dinner.
Famous NYC chef my ass. I knew it didn’t add up!
“That’s me,” Granny said proudly. “You are just on time!”
“Just sign here, ma’am.” Michael held out his clipboard, and gladly, Granny signed on the dotted line. “If you give me a minute, I’ll grab everything from the truck.”
“Just carry it on in, Michael.” Granny waved her hand generously toward the entryway. “We’ve got a hungry house waiting to dig in!”
Her voice held more affection for Michael than it had for me.
When he chuckled and jogged for his truck, I knew why. He humored her and moved at a brisk pace. Not to mention, he clearly wasn’t bothered by the goddamn scheme my grandmother had running here.
At a complete loss for what to say, I followed Michael’s lead down the hall and into the kitchen as he carried in the first box of food.
“Look, Mom,” I announced, and sarcasm dripped from my voice like honey. “Granny ordered us Thanksgiving on Wheels.”
Savannah’s head came up slowly and then all at once as she noticed the Meals on Wheels insignia on the box. “Oh my.”
Yeah, oh my was right.
“Dinner is served, everyone!” Granny proudly announced to everyone in the living room as Michael finished filling the kitchen island with several more boxes and took his leave.
Lucky bastard.
“Actually,” my mother chimed in as she opened up a box to find individual meal trays labeled with heating instructions, “it’s not served…yet.”
“What’s going on, Vanna?” Dick was happy to stay uninvolved until dinner got delayed. Now he had fucks, and he was ready to fucking give them.
“Well, Dick…” My mother’s voice walked an impressive line between polite calm and I’ll fuck your shit up real good. “Your mother generously ordered us Meals on Wheels for Thanksgiving. And it’s going to take another—” she glanced down at one of the trays “—twenty minutes before dinner will be hot and ready.”
“Oh!” Julia exclaimed excitedly once she plopped her little butt on a barstool and started browsing through our dinner trays. “I wants the ones with Jell-Os and chocolate puddings!”
Fucking hell. It was one of those “easy chew” trays!
“Me too,” Randy offered, giving my five-year-old a steely, competitive brow. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kline stepping a little closer, just in case he had to protect her.
Jesus Christmas.
My appetite was officially lost. The combination of guilt over eating something that should’ve been delivered to people who actually needed it and social anxiety at the hands of my family was a potent suppressant.
“Everyone go back into the living room, enjoy the rest of the game, and I’ll get these meals heated up,” my mother ordered with a wave of her hand.
“Already on it, Savannah!” Donnie chimed in as he stepped back inside the French doors that led to the back deck. “I went ahead and fired up the grill and put a few meals on the barbie!” he exclaimed and then proceeded to crack up at himself.
My mother’s eyes darted to my father, who had already made himself comfortable on the couch again. “Dick, honey, did you happen to fix the gas on that grill?”
It took a whole two seconds before my dad shot out of his recliner and to his feet. But by the time he reached the deck doors, it was too late. Flames of gold and orange and red filled our normally wooded view from the window.
“Oh my God!” my mother and I shouted at the same time.
“Oh! Fireworks!” Julia cheered and started to hop off her barstool. “I wants to go outside and sees the fireworks!”
“No,” Kline stated firmly, swooping our daughter off her feet and into his arms. “Those aren’t fireworks, sweetie. Let’s you, me, and Evie go play in the front yard.”
He moved swiftly down the front hall, and I was thankful. The language was about to go foul in here, and I wasn’t convinced some of it wouldn’t be from my very own mouth.
My cousins and their wives looked on with smiles—the fucking lunatics. It was like they actually liked this shit.
“Goddammit, Donnie! The whole fucking deck is gonna go up in flames!” Dick shouted at his brother on the deck.
“Don’t be so fucking dramatic, Dick! It’s just a little fire!”
“A little fire, my ass! Vanna call 9-1-1!”
“Happy fucking Holidays,” I muttered to myself, but Granny overheard and started into a rolling, choking chuckle.
Thanksgiving on Wheels and an actual explosion on the deck—it was definitely the holidays with my family.
Once the fire department had given my parents the all clear and assured them there was no damage to the house itself—thankfully, Dick had managed to break out the fire extinguisher and keep flames down to a dull roar—and that they didn’t need to stay in a hotel for the evening, Kline and I packed up the girls and headed home.
During the drive, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what Christmas would be like.
My eyes stung as all different scenarios—all equally fucking awful—assaulted me.
God, I just wanted to enjoy a good Christmas this year. A perfect Christmas. A Hallmark card-worthy holiday with Kline and the girls.
Everyone smiling and the house decorated beautifully with a gorgeous display of food on the table. Perfectly wrapped presents underneath the tree, a fire burning brightly, and children excitedly opening gifts while the adults looked on with hot cocoa mugs and loving smiles.
That’s what I wanted.
I didn’t think it was too much to ask for.
Without second-guessing myself, I pulled my phone out of my purse and texted my two best friends.
Me: What do you guys think about sneaking away to our cabin in the Catskills for Christmas this year? Just the six of us and the kids.
About a year and a half ago, Kline and I had purchased this gorgeous cabin in the Catskills. We’d bought it shortly after Evie was born, with our little family of four in mind, and it’d quickly become our home away from home getaway.
It was nestled in the hills, and the views from the wraparound deck and porch were absolutely breathtaking. Especially during the winter months, when the sights and sounds of snow filled the air and surrounded the cabin. Not to mention, it wasn’t short on bedrooms, bathrooms, or space. It could easily fit our closest friends and still have plenty of room.
But most importantly, it was a disaster-free zone.
Hence, the perfect place to spend Christmas.
Cassie: Let me guess. Thanksgiving with your family ended in its usual traumatic fashion.
Me: Granny ordered Meals on Wheels for our dinner, and Uncle Donnie set my parents’ deck on fire.
Cassie: Fluffing hell, Granny Cummings cracks my ass up.
Winnie: Oh, shit. Is everyone okay?
Me: Yeah. Everyone is fine. Crazy. But fine.
Me: So, Christmas in the Catskills? Please say yes. Please say yes.
Cassie: I’m game.
Winnie: I’ll have to work around the Mavericks game schedule, but I’m in too.
Me: YES! Come over to my house Saturday night for dinner, and we’ll plan it all out?
Cassie: I’ll be there.
Winnie: Me too.
Me: I LOVE YOU GUYS.
And that was that. This year, we’d spend Christmas with our closest friends.
No disasters. No fights. No fires. Just our friends, the gorgeous Catskills mountain views, and a nice little Christmas in our cabin.
It sounded like perfection to me.
And you can bet your sweet ass, I’d make goddamn sure everything ran smooth as silk.