Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, at least it was when I was a kid. Family, friends, and neighbors filter through your house depositing fruitcakes and sweets; then spend a few moments watching the end of It's a Wonderful Life or, a bottom of the barrel bowl game. In all, you get to spend quality time with people of endearment, interest and charm.
Then I grew up. The in-laws come over, the kid's friends make an appearance, the drunk next door comes over and livens things up briefly before he passes out on the sofa, and the grand-parents show up long enough to gas up the bathroom.
The mother-in-law announces that "this is the very last time" she will make the trip because of traffic. I quietly rejoice and pray she will make good on her promise. My mother sits in the corner and reminisces about the best ham she ever baked, and my wife sneaks shots of 18 year-old Scotch into her coffee as uncle Roy discusses his arthritis.
The kids make so much noise that it all runs together, sounding much like a swarm of bees, and forks raking over dinner plates. Like a deer lost in a forest fire, I look around in each direction confused and panicky.
Amidst the ragged pieces of wrapping paper and stray land-mines of plastic foot-killers, I make my way to the remote, and new television head-phones. I push the twelve year-old know-it-all away from the sweet spot on the love seat, and click on Sportscenter. The pixels come to life and off I go. As the colorful characters come to life, I wonder who would be the coolest athletes to invite over for Christmas.