Christmas Eve at my Mom’s house is a gauntlet. The living room smells like pine, ham, and a faint whiff of Yankee Candle desperation. Every square inch of space is packed with family—Aunt Sara’s screeching laugh, Grandpa yelling over the TV, and a nephew tearing through wrapping paper prematurely like a caffeinated squirrel. I love them all, sure, but there’s only so much a soul can take. That’s why, hidden deep in my coat pocket, is my salvation: a couple pre-rolled joints I’ve lovingly dubbed The Christmas Miracles.
First escape: the “forgotten gloves” trick. Easy sell. I slip out the front door, nodding at my step-dad on my way past. He’s three snickerdoodles in and won’t remember seeing me. Outside, the crisp air hits, and I make my way behind the garage, the universal safe zone for family get-togethers. One flick of the lighter, and everything changes. The chaos inside dulls into a distant buzz, like static on a radio. The first hit calms the storm; the second turns it into a symphony.
Back inside, baked and renewed, I weave through the crowd. Cousin Bob ambushes me with a question about my new book. I nod sagely, offer some vague info about the pros and cons of self publishing and pat him on the back. Sister Sara traps me near the cookie tray with a story about what they were going to be doing on Christmas. I smile and nod, marveling at how her voice sounds like a cartoon character’s. Someone hands me a plate of food—lasagna, mac-n-cheese, and something green. It’s glorious. Everything tastes like it was cooked by angels.
But the buzz starts to fade. It’s time for round two. I tell Mom I’m “just putting some stuff in the car” and grab a bag on my way out. This time, it’s a quick session by the side gate. I blow smoke rings into the cold night air, watching them swirl up to the stars. The lights on the neighbor’s house twinkle like a cosmic disco ball. I can almost hear the universe laughing with me. I laugh back…
Back inside, I’m floating. Grandpa pulls my daughter into a war of checkers—click click click. The sound of a raging game between 2 people that don’t know how to quit. He’s gesturing wildly, and she’s nodding along, probably fascinated by the way his eyebrows move. The caffeinated squirrel is screaming about Santa, and instead of being annoyed, I’m genuinely thrilled for him. His excitement feels contagious, like Christmas magic is real, and I’m riding the same wave of joy.
As the night winds down, I pull off one last escape, sneaking out under the guise of packing the car. I spark the last joint, savoring the moment. The house glows softly behind me, full of laughter, love, and ridiculousness. I can’t help but smile. High as I am, I realize this is what the holidays are about—not perfection, not peace, but weaving in and out of the chaos, finding little pockets of joy where you can.
I exhale, head back inside, and dive back into the madness. Smiling, nodding, and enjoying every weird, wonderful second with the perfect cup of coffee.
Keep it weird,
