It's that feeling I get when, after we've come home for Christmas - only to spend a few, precious hours with the family - and there's a dog along with us (a friend, who is in Thailand, who has been gone for a month and we thought we could help by keeping his dog this one, last week, which is more trouble than we thought) and that dog is a very good dog, generally speaking, but when he is around the other dogs, on their property and in their house (especially the oldest dog of the house), there is so much tension and there is snapping, growling, a fight; we must separate the dogs, put them in bedrooms alternatively, behind closed doors and listen to them whine out loud, cry for us to come and get them and we know, we know that we must ignore them because if we let them out they could hurt each other, and for this reason we sit at the dinner table and eat our bisque and french baquettes, we eat our roasted vegetables and rave over the perfect pork tenderloin, and we listen to dogs cry and we talk a little louder, look each other in the eyes a little longer, make a few more jokes, to try and forget that the dogs in our house want to kill each other; we sit at the table, we eat, we talk, we clear the table and wash the dishes, drink more wine, a beer, my younger brother sneaks some (unbeknownst to Dad) and we gather together around the marble island in the kitchen because we always find ourselves there, and we talk together even though the tensions are raised because of those crying dogs - you see, we just should not have these four dogs all under one roof, but it is too late to do anything about it, so we must make the best of this situation - and so eventually we sit down to open presents and we let one dog out and then after we open a few more presents we put that dog away and we let the other one out - just to catch his breath, you see - and the whole time Dad does not look happy, and we're telling the dog to sit and lay down while Marcus is opening a present and we can hardly hear his reaction because of the whining behind the bedroom door, but we listen closely and cheer louder than we need to when he gets a present he loves, and then we turn to the next person and the next, on down the row, and we have large smiles on our faces and we continue to open the gifts and finally, we are finished with the presents and Matthew jumps up to take one of the dogs outside because we know that we need to do right by the dog, he must have a little bit of air, etc. and so there he goes, to take him out, and meanwhile, because we are only home for a few hours and we must leave early in the morning, Mom and I decide that Santa must come tonight (Santa is more flexible now) and so Mom prepares the gifts from Santa and I run outside to get Matthew, excited, thinking this will be a nice relief from the dog troubles, and when I open the door to go out, our little dog runs out and he begins to go crazy (he is a bad dog, he does not listen to us like he should), and a car races down the dark street and Smokey runs like the wind and all Matthew and I can do is stare and hope and pray that the car does not hit Smokey, and we are so mad at him, at one another, at everything, and we are defeated from the night, from these dastardly dogs, and we just want to go to sleep and Smokey, Smokey! Come here! He does not listen, you see! He finally comes and we usher him into the house and we put him in timeout, worn and upset and Matthew needs to go to bed, but Santa has come and I can see it in his face that he cannot take anymore of it, and so I say, "That's ok, nevermind," and he leaves to go upstairs and my face turns red and I begin to cry in front of Mom and Dad and I apologize long enough to say, "I am so sorry, it's just a few hours, I wanted it to be perfect" and first Mom hugs me and then Dad, and then comes that feeling I get when, after I control my tears Mom watches me for a moment and then she says after all of these things, these details, this stress and the madness, she says quietly, "Would you like to open your present anyway?"

Dear Holidays,

I have vested so much time and so many memories in the lot of you. And it just so seems that you become more irascible as I become older. Nay, for I still try to capture your spirit, and in the past I've done so with effortless capabilities.

But this year! Your pull and tug have nearly won me out.

I am talking about these schedules, Holidays. I've decided to address you for what you've neglected to give me after all these years - peace of mind! The simplicity of being a child is that you come and you go and I was lucky to make a batch of sugar cookies. And now I am lucky to claw my way out of the kitchen looking halfway presentable after I've battled the spritzer for hours and mushed the gingerbread dough for nearly as long and burned the chocolate ganache petit fours not once but twice!

Oh, Holidays! I once greedily stole pine needles from the tree to scent my entire bedroom and now you've left me so poor I can hardly afford to buy a tree at all. A handful of cranberries float in a bowl of water and a fragrant pine candle tricks my mind long enough to take hold of that yesteryear magic you once shared with me.

The jingle from my mother's crystal snowflakes.

The cookie dough caught in the snowman cutter.

The tree lights that shined on the walls in the early morning hours before school.

You've granted me poor schedules, heralded my kitchen incompetency, ruined my meager finances, and now you threaten to take away these best, last memories.

Not today, Holidays!

I will not collapse under your pressure. I will survive.

And I will drink my eggnog with pleasure.

Happy Holidays, Holidays.

From,

The One Who Forgot to Stay Young

"unfortunately, in the African American culture, it will always be "we" and "them"....until "we" are accepted, valued and treated as an equal"

-Facebook user

This comment enrages me. It is not because I disagree with the context and the history of where African-Americans have been and come from in this country.

It does so because there appears to be no acceptance, recognition, or foresight on the author's behalf to continue the good work of what could be accomplished regarding how people see and treat one another.

I am not ignoring the fact that historically there has been a "we" and a "them".

But I will not ignore the efforts of countless people who have stood their ground for equality and what is right in the midst of such prejudices. Why do some people insist on deepening these lines of "other-ness" when there is such a consorted effort among some to step away from this debilitating mindset?

Please correct me if I've overlooked an instance where Martin Luther King, Jr. refers to the African-American demographic as "we" instead of talking about how civilization or all men must change.

Have I forgotten the times when Ghandi intentionally distinguishes the people of India from those in Pakistan, England, the U.S?

What about Mother Teresa? I venture to say that she spent much more time doing something about the sick and unloved than discussing how the people in Calcutta were ostracized.

There is so much to learn and to teach others about how diversity works, how we can appreciate one another and revel in each other's dissimilarities. And there are many people who want those boundaries and lines to remain drawn.

Stop the shop talk about "we" and "them". Appreciate the differences in a fresh light. In your own words, talk about your "thick lips...hair... butts...[and] color" with a newfound appreciation that does not involve a discussion on how "they" are jealous, having "heart attacks" and are "set off" by who you are.

Because the truth is that you ARE beautiful.

And so am I.

A Spritely Sway, Graceful Way

She walks through the door, holds it open with her right hand and smiles largely at those of us in the office.

"Hey ya'll!" She is excited to be here.

"Hey Caroline," we say to her. One of us is on the computer, emailing. Another is on the phone, selling. A third is in the kitchen, baking. We are worn out. We do not have her zest and we are thankful she brings it.

Caroline is fashionable in her own right. Perhaps she will wear dark, thick socks and her slip-on shoes or else she will arrive in genuine leather Cole Hahn loafers. A dress shirt with an outdated print on it will hide under a mustard-colored or else a hunter-green cardigan. Often she wears ankle pants. Tucked in or maybe not, her shirts appear haphazard and yet, she is always classy.

Her hair is an owl's nest, a poetic mess. Once I watched her pull a bobby pin from behind her left ear. She said, "I don't know how long it's been there." Today her hair is pulled back with assorted, mismatched clips. It eventually finds its way into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. It is anything but wispy. Tamed, somewhat, but certainly never a lack. Her hair is full and wavy, shouting "hellos" from every which way.

She dances through her work, opening wine bottles and setting out more crackers for all of our guests. Caroline is very graceful, and when I tell her she has a chipper aura about her, she laughs and says, "Do you really think so? I never have."

Well, yes, Caroline. Because of all these things about you, I do.