"How about that." He gets into bed and opens his book.

"I bet it came loose when we were either hanging or removing those plastic bags."

"Probably."

I watch him as his eyes travel down the page, making no movement to get up. "Well?" I ask.

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to fix it?"

"No, I'm not going to fix it. It's midnight. I'll get to it tomorrow."

"But it looks like it will fall right now."

He flips a page. "It'll be fine."

"No, I don't think it will. Look how loose it is." I demonstrate by yanking on it so that the sharply curlicued end dips even more precariously down toward my pillow.

"I wouldn't worry about it."

"Of course I'm going to worry about it. That's how I roll. I worry. About everything. Do I need to remind you of my head-in-the-toilet phobia?"

"I forgot about that."

"Well, what if this thing falls down during the night? It might stab me in the eye!"

He yawns and stretches. The bad thing about being a drama queen is when something potentially big finally does happen, no one takes you seriously. "It won't fall."

"But what if it does? I'll be blinded! I can't be blind. How would I put on eye makeup? And how would I get around? Last week I saw a blind guy get off the bus and his pointy-stick-dealie didn't alert him to the solid sheet of Plexiglas one foot up because you know those bus shelters are open at the bottom and splat! He totally bit it! And I laughed! I mean, not until I helped him maneuver around it. But the second he was out of earshot I practically wet my pants. Christ, one second he's tooling along all blind but happy and the next, wham! His face got all smushed up against the plastic and then he bounced off. A week later and it's still funny!" I stand and begin to pace, and the dogs, frightened by the tone of my voice, slink off to cower in the guest bathroom.

I catch my breath and continue. "s.h.i.t, I'm not good at navigating public transportation fully sighted-there's no way I could do it as a blind person. And if some random commuter laughed at my disability like I did Mr. Smashy O'Plexiglas, I'd swing my pointy white stick at the sound of their voice like they were a pinata! Then I'd get arrested and I cannot be blind and in jail! And even if the rod only stabbed me in one eye, I couldn't wear an eye patch because not only would it totally ruin my birthday but it would also mess up my hair."

I stand on top of the mattress, hands on my hips, glowering down at Fletch. He turns another page. "You present a compelling argument."

"So you'll fix it?"

"Yes."

I smirk. "Good."

"Tomorrow." He flips off the light on his nightstand.

"Arrggh! Why are you so willing to d.i.c.k around with my vision? How is this a chance you're okay with taking? I mean, if I go blind because you're too lazy to go downstairs and get the stuff to fix this-which would take all of five minutes, by the way-how will you live with yourself? I think this pointy b.a.s.t.a.r.d's coming down tonight and you know how often I'm right. What if I'm right right now and I get blinded because you couldn't lift a finger to take the slightest effort to prevent it? So, what would you do then, huh? What? Tell me, fat boy, What would you do?" I begin to nudge him with my foot.

Fletch sits back up and turns his light on again and I can see him processing the various scenarios. He scratches his head and finally he says, "That is a dilemma, but I guess...I guess...I guess I'd owe you a c.o.ke."

"Fine!" I shout, taking my pillow and putting it down at the other end of the bed. I figure I can probably live with being stabbed in the toe, and don't think for a minute I wouldn't make him carry me around. "You know what? I'd better get the best birthday present ever after this."

He rubs my calf. "No worries. You'll get what you deserve."

I receive a carpet shampooer for my birthday.

But the joke's on him, because it's exactly what I wanted.

Not content to celebrate the big day in one state, I go to my parents' house in Indiana for the weekend. As a gesture to Fletch, I don't force him to come with me this time. He loves my family, but sometimes they're a bit of a handful. I mean, I didn't get this way on my own, you know? Plus my parents are moving closer to my brother's family soon, so I want to get another visit or two in at the old homestead before the house sells.

Fresh from reading The Da Vinci Code, my parents and I spend a great deal of time chatting about Sir Isaac Newton. Big Daddy marvels how the bulk of Newton's accomplishments took place over an eighteen-month span. Can you imagine? Shoot, I've gone eighteen months without returning a library book. We wonder if minds that great exist today, and if so, would they have been able to break away from their BlackBerrys and IMs and TiVos long enough to come up with the concept of gravity and the advancement of heliocentrism. Speaking from purely personal experience with said devices, I'd say no. I mean, TiVo? I can record Lost and Veronica Mars at the same time. We are on the other side of the looking-gla.s.s here, people.

We also talk about this "family planning" clinic I always pa.s.s when I take Fletch to work. A lot of times when I drive by, I see a bunch of Catholic clergy lined up next to the door. We discuss the efficacy of this strategy, wondering if in fact their presence stops women from seeking birth control, and thus spurs more unwanted pregnancies. We don't come up with any answers (which really wasn't our goal anyway); rather, my point here is it's kind of nice to have been sp.a.w.ned from people who can use "efficacy" in a sentence.

Our conversation wraps up with an examination of modern literature versus the cla.s.sics. My mother has recently become addicted to Jane Austen and talks about how dark the Bront sisters are in comparison. My father prattles on about the genius of Arthur Conan Doyle, and even though our tastes in reading material vary greatly, we all agree Thomas Hardy (brilliant though he may be) bores us silly with his three-page descriptions of brocaded upholstery.

Please keep the above in mind as I detail what happens next.

"Jen, come here, I need your help," my mother calls down the stairs, where I'm having coffee with my dad.

"What's up, Mom?" I join my mother in the guest room, which she calls the Heritage Room because (a) it's filled with family photos, and (b) she can be incredibly queer like that. Fortunately, I did finally convince her to pack away Sandy, the previous inhabitant of this room. Sandy was the doll my mom made me in fourth grade. She was life-sized and wore my Brownie uniform and was one of the best Christmas presents I ever got. Unfortunately, Fletch found her flat-out creepy and never slept well in the room because he was afraid Sandy was going to come to life and strangle him with her long, cotton-stuffed panty-hose arms.

"I'd like you to help me move this piece of furniture downstairs. The neighborhood is having a garage sale and I want to sell it." She points to the one thing in their house I desperately want. (Many a time I've been tempted to put a "Jen" sticker on it, like in that episode of Frasier when he thinks he's dying and Niles claims all his stuff.)7 Anyway, this gorgeous Shaker-style buffet would be perfect in my house, and it's decided that I'm going to take it because my parents can be that kind of cool.

While readying the piece for the big trip down the stairs, we determine the cabinet doors need to be taped shut. "Mom? These are going to fly open when we put it on an angle. Can you please find some tape so we can keep them closed?"

My mother returns promptly. "Um, are you trying to be funny? Because I'm pretty sure Scotch tape isn't going to work on two heavy maple doors." However, when she returns with duct tape, we realize it really makes no difference because someone has just polished the entire thing and it is slick with lemon oil.

Oh, yes, I think you know where this is going.

A different yet equally clueless member of the family helps me maneuver this piece to the staircase. (At this point I'm going anonymous about who's who due to my desire to get those d.a.m.n bulldogs.) In a nod to said member's love of all things Sir Isaac Newton, this person thinks we'd be better flipping it over and allowing gravity to propel it down the stairs, instead of the more controlled method of carrying it down step, pause, step, pause. I'm to stand in front and navigate and he's going to follow, supporting his half of the weight in back as we do a controlled freefall.

About halfway down the stairs, someone loses his grip and suddenly my body is the only thing standing between the wall and two hundred pounds of freshly oiled maple, careening toward the landing at approximately the speed of light.

All I can think is, Dear G.o.d, please don't let me be hurt to the extent that I must be rushed to the same local hospital where they accidentally treated me for hepat.i.tis when I was fifteen years old.8 Fortunately, the buffet strikes me in the back with such force that I'm thrown down the remaining seven stairs. As I float through the air in slow motion, I think, The realtor is going to be here in ten minutes and maybe the house will have a better chance of selling if there's not a Shaker-style buffet sticking halfway out of the wall, thus preventing my parents from moving closer to their beloved grandchildren. And because I am a good daughter9 I'm able to reposition and hurl myself back in front of it to protect the wall at the end of the stairway and to keep the piece from smashing into a lot of greasy wood chips.

I find myself up against the sea gra.s.s wallpaper, two hundred pounds of fine-albeit slightly oily-Shaker furniture pinning me in place, when Captain Obvious finds it germane to mention in his lifelong Boston accent, "Hey, Jennifah? I think I may have lost my grip," while Mrs. Captain Obvious muses, "I wonder if I shouldn't have polished it first?"

No. s.h.i.t.

Yet people still wonder why after being around my family, I always threaten to spend my next holiday in Hawaii.

Thanksgiving comes-and goes-and Fletch and I have vowed to never speak of it again. Suffice it to say Hawaii looks pretty d.a.m.n good right about now.

Fletch, the dogs, and I drive home for Christmas and the trip is entirely without incident. Regardless of how much we watch the Weather Channel, we seem to have an uncanny ability to hit a big storm and the three-hour trip takes more like nine. But this time? Smooth sailing across dry, empty roads. We even manage to find a radio station we can agree on-although it's probably because we now have XM rather than any sort of Christmas miracle-so we don't spend the trip toggling between a Rammstein10 CD and the soundtrack to Cabaret in the kind of musical compromise that satisfies no one.

Instead of the usual cartwheels and backflips the dogs normally enjoy while we're driving on a snowy, truck-filled expressway, they settle right down and nap from the second we leave the 60647 until the moment we arrive. (They do stir when we give them each a cheeseburger-they aren't machines, for G.o.d's sake.) We spend the trip recounting yesterday's adventure. Since Fletch is off until after New Year's we decide we're going to do something fun every day. Although most of our time is taken up with holiday parties, yesterday we went to a place in the suburbs with artificial snow, little ski slopes, and an inner-tube run. Hungover as we were, we decided skiing would take too much effort, so we opted for sledding.

The hill was quite steep but it didn't matter because a towrope pulled us up, so we avoided having to climb. The first run we did alone-it was fast and fun, but kind of tame. Next, Fletch and I decided to see what it was like to ride down together, so we held on to each other's snow tubes.

There's a physics principle at work here and I'm not sure what it is. All I know is that four hundred pounds of Republican careen down an ice-covered incline about ten times faster than if each party went separately. We flew down the hill at Mach 10, pulling the same g-force as a s.p.a.ce shuttle launch. It was as though we'd coated our tubes with nonnutritive cereal varnish,11 because we were going so fast we sailed off the hill, across the highway, and into the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Okay, that's not exactly true.

But all the stupid little kids who didn't get out of our way learned an interesting lesson about force equaling ma.s.s times acceleration.

We're still laughing about the day as we pull into my parents' driveway. "You know," I tell Fletch, "I should feel guilty about toppling them like so many bowling pins...yet here I am."

"You were supposed to be steering because I was backward. I didn't see that one kid until he went flying over our heads."

"I couldn't steer; I was too busy covering my eyes."

"We've got to go there again before I head back to work."

"Definitely." We bring the dogs in the house, hug my parents, and load in bag after bag of presents. It's the first time we've been able to go all-out for the holidays in a long while, so we've been really generous to thank everyone for their support over the past few years. On my last trip in from the car, I slip on the one patch of ice anywhere in Indiana,12 but otherwise our time pa.s.ses without incident.

We spend three days entertaining each other and marvel at how well the holiday is going. The fire department doesn't have to come,13 no one winds up pa.s.sed out under the dining room table after eating all the vodka-laden fruit from the champagne punch for breakfast,14 we have running water,15 the oven works,16 and Dad doesn't knock the grill into the pool.17 We end up having exactly the kind of good, old-fashioned, functional-family holiday you see in greeting cards and it's borderline glorious. The food's great, the company's even better, and Mother Nature gets into the spirit of things and gives us our White Christmas after all. I can't imagine how I ever thought Hawaii would be better than this.

It's the night before we leave and we're all gathered by the fire having hot chocolate and cookies and watching Family Guy. Quagmire, the show's resident s.e.x fiend, makes a comment about a "reach-around" with a spider monkey and we all snicker.

Except my mother, that is.

"What's a reach-around?" she asks.

Fletch, Dad, and I sit there silently, unwilling to meet each other's eyes, and trying not to laugh because that will only encourage my mother. I screw up and look at Fletch and we both start snorting.

Uh-oh. The floodgates have just opened.

She sits up on the couch. "No, really, what's a reach-around?"

We giggle uncomfortably, saying nothing.

Mom starts to get frustrated. If there's a joke, d.a.m.n it, she wants to know why it's funny. "Someone tell me what a reach-around is right now. Fletch, what is it? Have you had one? Did you like it?"

"I am not having this conversation with my mother-in-law. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to wash my brain out with beer," says Fletch before disappearing into the garage.

"Ron, what's a reach-around?"

"Martinis!" he exclaims. "Who wants a martini? Yeah, I'm going to go make martinis. I'm going to go make them right now." My father sprints out of the family room with the kind of quickness you'd never expect from a man with seventy-one-year-old knees.

She turns to me, determined. "Jen? What is it?"

"Mom, does the fact your question just cleared the room tell you anything? Like, maybe we're all incredibly embarra.s.sed and would prefer this line of questioning to stop immediately?"

"Oh, please." She brushes off their leaving with a flip of her wrist. "You came out of my body. The least you can do is explain what a reach-around is."

"Look it up on UrbanDictionary.com if you're so curious because I am not telling you. You know how modest I am; I couldn't explain it to you if my life depended on it."

She crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently. "For heaven's sake, Jennifer, you're what-thirty-eight years old? Grow up and just tell me. Did I have a reach-around when I gave birth to you?"

"No." I squeeze my eyes closed and shake my head.

She gestures toward her dog, Bruno, who immediately slinks out of the room to join our two already hiding under the dining room table. Dad and Fletch are still missing. They may be under there as well. "Does he do a reach-around?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No thumbs. Can we please change the subject?"

"Did your Dad get a reach-around when he was in the marines?"

I shudder. "I'm leaving to watch TV in the den now." I grab my cocoa and dump it in the sink, deciding to exchange it for wine.

While I attempt to scuttle out of the room, Mom points to her chest and asks, "Are these my reach-arounds?" She then gestures lower. "What about this?"

"Gah!" I stop pouring in lieu of grabbing the entire bottle.

"Why won't you answer me?"

"Because you are making the baby Jesus cry right now."

She finally gets the hint and reach-arounds are not mentioned again in mixed company, thank G.o.d. Eventually the guys find their way back to the family room, but Dad changes the channel to It's a Wonderful Life, secure in the knowledge that Jimmy Stewart will never, ever mention a Cleveland Steamer.

Today I wake to a melange of delicious aromas and the sound of carols echoing though the house. My brother and his family are on their way so my mother's starting another round of cooking. Because of a miscommunication about kennel arrangements18 we're not overlapping our holiday visits this year. I'm sorry not to see Todd's wife and children, although I can't help but notice there's a lot less arguing when we're apart. (Although I'll admit it was fun being together last year, even though I slept in the morning of the tsunami and awoke to a house full of Asian weather-pattern experts.) I throw on my slippers, pull a sweatshirt over my sock-monkey pajamas,19 and come down for coffee. My mother is the only other person up-I imagine the boys are sleeping it off right now-and she putters around the kitchen making a variety of tempting breakfast treats.

"Hey, Mom. Something smells delicious."

"You're up early! Good morning!" My mom kisses me on the forehead and hands me a cup of French roast.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Um..." Her eyes scan the cooking projects scattered throughout the kitchen. "Yes, yes, actually. There is one thing."

"What's that? You need me to cook the bacon?"

"Got it already, thanks."

"Want me to make mimosas?"

"Aren't you driving back today?"

"Oh, yeah, scratch that. I guess I can spend one morning without booze. So what do you need? Want me to slice the English m.u.f.fins? Or feed the dogs?"

She pours herself a mug of tea and sits down at the breakfast bar next to me. She places her hand over mine, giving me a couple of pats and a wide smile. "No, no, it's all taken care of." Aw, it's good to be home.

"Then what do you need?"

She clutches my wrist and holds me in place. "I need you to tell me what a reach-around is."

A couple of points to be made here: First, I completely blame my mother for inspiring my subsequently heroic holiday liquor intake.