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I’ll Party Witcha
A ‘Home for the Holidays’ style story about those times you may not choose who you spend the holidays with.
The winter of 2011 was a magical time. I’d fallen wildly in love with a man who felt as comforting and familiar (like our souls had known each other for eons already), as he did wild and exciting. Each of us having just survived our own personal version of hellfire, we came together in a way that felt like quiet salvation. Or like two lone wolves finally giving up the solitary life and deciding to form a lone wolf pack, with a couple of housecats thrown in for good measure. It was a life-changing event, so we thought nothing of it when the holidays neared three months later and we decided I should come home with him to St. Louis. Yes, the proverbial first meeting of the immediate family was happening in record time.
The morning of our flight right smack to the middle of cornfed America (Missouri is perfectly nestled at the dead center of the US — who knew?), there was already some familial drama brewing. Doug’s troubled sister Andrea had called him that morning, in the middle of a fight with his mother. They were both at her condo, and Doug was for some reason called in to mediate the argument even though we wouldn’t physically be there til later that night. The crux of the argument would prove to be a yearly theme and a favorite ruse of Andrea’s as part of an effort to completely…
