League of Melbotis

It's going to be a Batty Christmas

So my Mom is nice to a fault. I mean, really. She has no system by which she decides people must be jerks, so she pretty much is friendly with everyone. Where most people have a filter which says "okay, that guy is weilding a meat cleaver and has a human head in his hand," my mom would tell him what a nice, clean cut he made taking the head off. It's only later that she will tell you that maybe that person is a little creepy.

Which makes things interesting at Christmas. Because The Kare-Bear pretty much invites anybody looking wild-eyed and dangerous into our household for Christmas dinner. Hence, the Steans family Christmas dinner, for the past several years, has had somebody who is pretty much a stranger at the table. I've learned not to question it too much, to mostly just grit my teeth and get past the whole thing by lubing up the brain with plenty of "Box O' Wine".

This year an entire family I am pretty much utterly unfamiliar with is going to be there for Christmas Dinner. Which is fine. We will have "Box O' Wine" on hand, and I will just keep it flowing until it's dried up and these people seem completely reasonable.

I'm not terribly shy. I do fine at work, and I do fine at the doctor and in meeting people... but I basically realized in my third year of college that I have absolutely nothing to say to most people unless I am given a topic. Work is great. The weather and sports are great. I shake my head a lot, laugh when there's an appropriate place to do so, and try not to freak out the squares. But new people in the house make me insanely uncomfortable. I feel like jumping out of my skin and hiding in the bathroom until the danger has passed.

The fact is, I moved out of my parents' house ten years ago, and as much as I'd like to feel like their house is my house, it isn't. It's their house to fill with their friends as they see fit. Which puts me in a curious position, because like most people who have parents, I am still thought of as "the kid" the second I step through their door. I'm not really a guest (I know where to find spare rolls of toilet paper), but it's also not my territory to protect. This standing means I should show some filial piety and shut the hell up about my discomfort surrounding whichever whackos are going to be telling me weird (and often racist) jokes over a plate of cranberry sauce.

My Mom tells me she likes a house full of people, and I assume she means "give me grandkids, you loser." But I have no plans, and I think kids smell like old syrup, so I'm in no rush. So until, I guess, my brother figures out a way to find somebody willing to have children with him, we are doomed to an endless cycle of folks willing to take advantage of my mom's hospitality.

***UPDATE****

boy, in rereading this, sounds like I have a nasty case of social anxiety disorder. Thank God for sweet, sweet liquor.