So the big day is here. I’m pretty sure this Christmas is the only one I have ever spent not in the ‘burbs of Boston.

It’s a balmy 60 degrees here in San Jose right now, though, so I ain’t complaining.

Also for the first time I hosted a Christmas Eve feast. Even at the height of helping Pat with the cooking and cleaning, the Eve I was either not doing anything on Dec. 24 or being a guest in the domain of Oldest Brother’s family blending in his wife’s traditions. I thought of their primerib and crab dip last night.

The quick capsule of our soiree was piles of food, mostly made lovingly by my little hands, a yankee swap with 19 numbers handed out that ultimately became cutthroat and my perception that hippies raise shitty kids. Seriously, one shortfall of the laidback California lifestyle of anything goes appears to be snot-nosed spawn with no sense of etiquette or social interaction with grace.

Doubtless in the olden days, had one of us brave spawn of Pat deigned to in-your-face gripe, bitch, whine and barter our yankee swap booty, beseeching every single party guest with a superior gift, he or she would have gone home devoid of any gift at all. And, I suspect I would do the same.

So, yeah, to summarize: Me, M., suburbs, food, friends, birth control on two legs and swapping.