Mixed Nuts

December is synonymous with holiday parties –
awkward social gatherings of people you really only see at annual
holiday parties. The host is usually the most bumbling member of the
bunch: the middle-aged woman in the glittery Christmas sweater who
bounces around from one unsuspecting guest to another, telling stories
about the cute things that her dog has been doing and harassing each
of them with cookies shaped like Christmas trees.

My third cousin once removed is usually the proud entertainer of our
family's yearly holiday party, and she is no exception to the
stereotype. A round woman standing at about 5 feet, she is small
enough that her head is the only one not to scrape along the garland
that she has strung from every doorpost.

Her children are, well, nightmares. As I make my way into her home,
usually carrying several gift bags as a buffer, three year old Tommy
and his older brother Curtis come at me with their sticky hands – "My
present, my present!" I barely make it to the sofa unscathed before
the dog attacks; I can feel him humping the back of my leg, and I know
that this one will be a memorable evening.

I've brought those few "back-up gifts," the unscented candles and
festive bottles of hand sanitizer and leftover Christmas cookies in
tins, in case I run into a member of the family that I have not
anticipated. "It's so good to see you," I say, patting a man on the
back and searching for his name – he must be an uncle something or
other.

Of course there will be no actual meal, just a table spread with
crackers and cheese and assorted fruits that all of us will loiter
around self-consciously, crossing our arms in front of us and hoping
that no one will approach us to initiate conversation.

Uncle *Giorgio is sitting in the middle of the sofa, calling the
children over to him one at a time to sit on his lap. "Merry
Christmas, you little rugrat. Now, pull my finger." He's pulling
quarters out of his pants pocket in lieu of presents, flicking them
off his thumb and into their tiny little palms. He beckons to me, but
I pretend not to notice – last year I think I felt something when I
sat on his lap, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't a candy cane.

Aunt *Carla, who insists on my calling her "just Carla" now that I'm
not a teenager, is handing out homemade Christmas cards in the
kitchen. There is a picture of her family on the front, enclosed in a
Photoshopped Christmas wreath, and on the back is an update of
everything that her children have been doing this year. Bill and his
partner got a new apartment in Queens. Katie started her first year at
University of Maryland this year, but decided to leave at the end of
the semester to keep the baby (look at her belly in the picture!). We
were able to bail Jason out of jail this past August (silly high
school boys and their pranks), so he'll just be doing some yard work
around the neighborhood – wave if you see him.

Sitting on the couch at our family holiday extravaganza, hoping to get
drunk off the eggnog and becoming complacent with the dog gently
copulating with my kneecap, I wonder if the end-of-the-year parties at
college aren't just as uncomfortable.

You scan the roomful of drunk teens in reindeer ears, searching for
familiar faces while simultaneously taking note of all the exits (just
in case). You find a friend, a fellow Physics major with an equally
distressed look on his face. "Professor Arbeitswalze is dancing on the
bar. Again."

Mingling is, of course, essential, getting to know the members of your
department who usually sleep through your morning class together, but
a confrontation with a professor outside the classroom is always an
unnerving experience. It's like watching a documentary on the
Discovery Channel: Observe is the animal in its natural habitat. Now,
watch as it migrates far from its home, hunting for food. It sees
fresh meat, and it begins to stalk from a distance at first, then
approaches its prey and attacks – "Why haven't I received your paper,
Smith? It was due Friday at 5pm." You watch as the victim fights for
its life, looks to its kind for protection, and finally submits. "It
was due on Friday? I'll get that right in to you. Really. No, really."

The chair of the department has thoughtfully provided a keg, and you
are able to persuade the drunken bartender (with a little bit of
cleavage) to give you a free glass of unlabeled beer. It tastes like
urine, you observe, walking past your advisor who has his mixed nuts
resting on the corner of the refreshment bar. "No, how you doin'?" He
winks, aims a finger pistol at you. Luckily you dart out of the way
just in time.

"Duuuuuuude," says a small boy you've never met before, draping his
arm across your shoulder, "I know you." He looks too young to be a
college freshman, too tiny. You pat him on the back and he slumps
over, and though you try to pull him back up onto his feet his heavy
body will not budge. There is nothing to do but to look to the left
and right, swallow another sip of beer, and step over his sleeping
body.

I come back from my trance when I feel something slobbery and wet on
my hand – the dog has brought me a barbecued chicken wing, and my
cousin comes shouting towards me, "bring that back! You little sh--."
She trails off into the distance, but I can hear the clicking of her
high heels as she chases the dog into the dining room. I search the
faces in the room, some familiar, some alien (in both senses of the
word), and I wonder how I can possibly be related to these people. But
really, I love them; yes, even the curious man in the corner who has
continued to lick his fingers long after he has finished his dinner.

Each one of them is a part of me in some strange and wonderful way,
helped to form some small part of my personality; they are linked to
me inextricably. And each one of them will be giving me a present
before the night is over.