This has been one of those, how you say, watershed years, which has become extra-evident to me now that xmas, my old arch-nemesis, is approaching.

I have a long and sordid history with Christmas. When I was five I left my grandmother’s house and moved in with my mother and her new husband, who was a control-freak ogre. When I was really small, like Franny’s age, he would yell at me, no joke, if I was opening presents “wrong” by tearing into boxes. The worst part was that I knew he wasn’t going to save the boxes; they were just going into the fireplace immediately after it was over. This can put a damper on enjoying Christmas morning. I think kids should be allowed to rip and mutilate packaging if they want to. I have encouraged Franny to have a free-for-all for a few years running now, but I have landed with one of those kids who delicately do the tape, one piece at a time, “pink, pink, pink,” until I want to yell at her to rip and shred. The irony, she is killing me.

Then, the year I turned eleven I totally lost it. After years of lying under the tree and shaking, fondling, and smelling packages, I crossed the line. One night when my mom was out, I decided to smuggle the most enticing present into my room and sneak it open. I eased the box out of its wrappings so I could look at it. It was a Barbie, and not just any Barbie, but an equestrian Barbie, complete with jodhpurs and one of those gay Sherlock Holmes hats, and I think a tiny whip, which may or may not explain a lot of things now.

When I was a kid, once I crossed a line, I had to make sure that the line was completely and utterly crossed, to the point where I couldn’t even see the line anymore. Gaffling a present and big time peeping at it made the line, like, Australia, and I decided to proceed until the line was equidistant to Pluto. I was always aided by the little voice in my head, which in times past was referred to as The Devil.

“You’ve already opened the present,” The Devil said. “You might as well enjoy yourself a little.”

“Good point,” I replied.

At this point, I could have retaped the package and snuck it back down under the tree, and acted very surprised on Christmas morning. Instead, I very carefully pinked the tape on the Barbie box and eased her out of her confines. For those who have never experienced the cracklike addiction of owning Barbies and craving her 78 million necessary accessories, it has to be said that removing a Barbie from her packaging is a lot like a type of surgery. There are all the twist-ties that hold her arms and legs and accessories in place. There is also a lot of tape involved, and sometimes Barbie’s hair is even sewn in place. Seeing how Barbie is actually pinioned into the box is a lot like viewing the back of a store-window mannequin.

But somehow, I thought that I could take Horsie Barbie out, play with her for a few days, and then create a close approximation of her store-fresh state for Christmas morning, at least enough to fool my mom.

“Your mom won’t look at it closely when you open it anyway,” said The Devil. “She won’t suspect a thing.”

I didn’t get as far as repackaging the Barbie, though, because a couple of nights later my mother barged into my room one evening, where I was secretly playing with it. There I was on the bed, combing her hair. My mom’s mouth gaped. I can’t remember what she said to me, but she made the decision, like she always did, not to tell my stepfather. I do remember she had me put it back in the box as best I could and she rewrapped it.

On Christmas morning I reopened the Barbie and was obligated, of course, to feign surprise.

“I love it!” I said.

“Hmph,” said my mom’s look.

“Next time, be more careful,” said The Devil.

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This year I have surprised myself by liking xmas for the first time since I was five or so. Now that I am able to do things partly my own way, and I like all the people who are around me, I feel like I can relax into making my own traditions. Like our glorious Xmas ficus, topped for the second year in a row with a shining Beyonce.

There is also Supa’s glog (pronounced gloog). I’m not exactly sure what’s in it, because alas I lost the recipe during my divorce move, but I do know it makes you do things like this. And then photograph it. Thanks, Supa!