Virginia, trust me
Today marked the first official family get together of the holiday season.
Let the games begin!

This particular social function has done a fair bit of morphing over the years. It started out at my Aunt Carole�s house, back when I was young. All the parents would let us run riot while they sat with their beer, playing cribbage and catching up. I remember always getting a fireman�s carry to the car by my Dad in the wee hours of the morning. As the years passed and I was able to stay up later, the tides shifted and the evenings wrapped up earlier and earlier. That was only the down side, however. It was around the time I was starting to complain about the inequity of the party poopers being the ones who drove that my Aunt Bev wondered aloud if we weren�t old enough to be involved in the playing of the card game �99�, previously reserved only for adults. I was suitably appeased.

When, due to the addition of new babies, boyfriends and wives, my aunt�s home became too small to contain the festivities, we all made the trek out to Westminster to my other aunt�s modest ranch in the country. We rented buffet tables and chairs and were all assigned a part of the meal to bring along. The numbers reached toward the 34 mark, if you didn�t include the eight dogs my cousins always brought along. We switched to Bingo, with my sister playing the role of Vanna when showcasing the gifts to be won. Those were the years when the traditional plum pudding with rum sauce was served and carol books were hauled out as the Big Winner of the last full-card Bingo found baggies to lug home their myriad quarters. One year, Mom won $60!

When my uncle passed away years ago, my aunt sold the farm and moved into the city, closer to her sister. The party moved to the condo and is now more of a cocktail gathering than anything. We swapped out potatoes and vegetables for exotic cheeses and shrimp. We trade holiday cards, quietly admitting that we�re thrilled to be able to save so much postage. What we have the most fun doing now is watching the little ones open their gifts. And this year, She Who Shall Not Be Named ruined that. Bitch. She told her five year old daughter that there is no Santa and asked us to please not mention him around her. So most of us spent the rest of the day listening closely without seeming to, making sure she didn't poison the minds of the other little girls. Again I say: bitch.

Pardon my language, but the older and more cynical I get about this planet and those who inhabit it, the more it becomes important to me that the young remain in wide-eyed wonder about as many things as possible for as long as possible. (Anyone reading this is instantly excepted from the above rant, as if you didn�t already know that, lovely people�) Naivet� and innocence are valuable commodities, and those who go out of their way to wrest that from some poor kid deserve to live out the rest of their days with a rash between their fingers and toes and in places you can�t reach.

I mean, seriously, what the hell is wrong with believing in Santa? The kids tend to behave more, adults get to tease about stockings full of coal and the movie industry continues to churn out more crappy, sappy pap about The Season of Good Merchandising.

Let�s hope next weekend proves much more fantastical.

Posted at 8:14 p.m.