For someone who is terribly good at giving gifts—this is not horn-tootin’, this is fact and truth—how come I am so lame as to find myself scrambling for a Christmas present at eight p.m. Christmas eve? Tomorrow we go to Matthew’s parents’ place for a holiday feed, and here’s me about to show up empty-handed.

“If only I’d thought to pack something for Matthew’s parents before I came,” I said to CC.

“But we talked about it,” she said.

“But we didn’t!”

“But we did!” she said. “Remember? You asked if you should bring anything and I said, ‘Maybe just something for the family.’”

“For?” I said. “For? I thought you said ‘from’! I thought you said ‘Maybe just something from the family’! I thought you meant you were taking care of it, like, you were going to get something for them from us, the family!”

“Oh,” I said, “I am deaf.”

“Oh,” she said, “I mumble.”

“What a difference one word makes,” I said, when we were done beating the floor with silent laughter (the kid was asleep).

“‘Christmas’?” she said.

“‘From’!”

I took a little walk to the neighborhood bottle shop, hoping for lights on and doors open. And happy days are here again, people, because LiquorLand on the night before Christmas is chock-a-block with people about to make merry. A bottle of sparkling wine later, I am saved from social savagery.

As I exited the store, a guy with wild hair veered toward me and said, “Ho ho ho!”