Everybody Loves Kelly

Hey kids,

The nice single lady next door that I never, ever see but can hear occasionally seems to be vacuuming right now, at 7:32 on Christmas night. It could mean either she's got company coming over, and they're going to spike some eggnog and gather around the tree and sing and exchange presents, or for some perverse reason, I prefer to think she's alone like me, and taking advantage of a slow, dull night alone to get some chores done.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter. Daddy took you two to California Thursday and you've been rollicking with the relatives and inlaws and outlaws and steplaws for a couple days now. And I've been back here at home sick as a dog and puttering around the house by myself.

Well, I guess not exactly by myself. Yesterday, Christmas Eve, I decided to tackle the pantry in between fits of dry heaving and my fever building and breaking, building and breaking, like it has been for about four days now. I cleared out the two middle shelves, laid down new shelf paper and discarded a few expired can goods (oldest by far was the can of tomato juice with a 2005 sell-by date). But when I moved something on the bottom shelf and a black widow scurried out and hissed at me (not really, it just scurried but didn't hiss), I knew it was time to invoke the power of Nana. I've had fantasies of my mom coming over and helping me clean my house properly, but haven't yet shared these fantasies with her, for obvious reasons. But these were special circumstances, as deadly predatory arachnids were now involved.

I called her up, and she said sure, she'd be right over. She arrived with latex gloves and a positive attitude. We talked for a bit, but before it could become an endless chatfest, I stood up and started dry-heaving, and she said, 'Well, I better get started, then."

She dispatched two black widows with a broom and bug spray, and finished off the top and bottom shelves before leaving.

I settled in on the couch and began to plan my dinner. Something that I wouldn't normally eat when you guys are around. A piece of fish perhaps, and some wilted spinach. That last tiny glass of Southern Comfort that I had coaxed out of the bottle that I found in the back of the pantry.

But mom called in the midst of my foodie/alcoholic reverie and asked me if I had any sour cream. She was making chip and dip and she and dad were coming over sometime after six.

Oh god. What unholy door had I opened? Is my life turning into every sitcom that ever featured parents or inlaws that walk in through the kitchen door without knocking? Day in and day out? (I'm looking at you, Ray Romano, who, while annoying as hell in Everybody Loves Raymond, has turned into a mega-FILF in Men of a Certain Age...)

So they came over at six, with chips and dip and fish in tins and stuffed celery. And I enjoyed myself immensely. Sure, a sauteed salmon and a SoCo would've been nice, but I probably would've wound up feeling a bit sorry for myself, it being Christmas Eve and all.

Today, same thing. While it would've been satisfyingly martyr-like to putter around by myself all day, cleaning the fridge like I had planned and trying for day three without a shower, I knew I couldn't let it happen. So over they came, at around noon, bearing ham, baked potatoes, squash casserole, deviled eggs and more stuffed celery. How could I say no? I even whipped up an apple crumble in about 10 minutes after my dad called right before they were supposed to come over, telling me that mom had dropped the buttermilk pie face down on the kitchen floor.

Dinner was good, conversation was good, there was no fighting or futzing. I gave them their Christmas present, a Welcome to Nevada basket filled with moisturizers and heel-repair cream and lip balm for mom and IceMelt and a snowscraper for my dad, and winter gloves for both of them. Cute, no?

Streamed two Netflix movies afterwards, a weird mix: the new Joan Rivers documentary (excellent) and a slow-moving Jack Nicholson flick from 2001, "The Pledge."

They left, I did dishes, and now here I sit, nibbling on chocolate, drinking a glass of port and listening to the neighbor lady do chores. I'm still contemplating cleaning out the fridge tonight, but the longer I sit here and sip on this port, the more I just want to lay down and stream some more Netflix.

I miss you both very much, but I know you're having a great time where you are. I know this, because when I talked to you on the phone this morning, you could barely be bothered. Sounds like Santa was veddy veddy gooood to the both of you, and you'll be hauling back quite the truckload of crap when you come home. But *do* come home, sweeties. Soon. I love you love you love you. Merry Christmas.