There is a very, very unfortunate pageant on Christmas morning amongst my family that requires only one person to open only one present at a time while everybody else watches. These present openings last eight hours. I am not shitting you. Last year's took six, if you don't count the hour-long lunch break. How fucking ridiculous is that? Everyone is expected to feign excitement as they open another box full of disappointment and then hear the oh-so-enlightening reason why the person chose to get you Fix-a-Flat.

The law states that we need to get this thing over with so I can get the alcohol in me quicker. Unfortunately, the eight-hour pageant is Carlson tradition, and there is no way to make a lady who has watched every single Days of Our Lives episode since it premiered change her ways. However, I devised a scheme with potential for relief. My family either needs to buy less presents or stop individually wrapping each sock, napkin ring, and toothpick.

I caused a real stir when I told my family earlier in the year that they are not allowed to buy me more than five Christmas presents. You'd think I told them I had AIDS. Are you sure? How did this happen? I wouldn't be so quick to rain on their parade if they just spent their money on things that I want instead of the bizarre-o presents that nobody wishes on their worst enemy, as evident a few weeks later when I liquidate them on eBay for three dollars, rounded up.

“Ooh,” my mom will exclaim. “That collarless button-up shirt, size large, will look good on you! Who's that from?”

“Apparently someone who doesn't know how to read.”

You see, each year I provide my family with a Christmas wish list. A small and inexpensive wish list. And still my family continues to shop on the gut feeling that they know my likes and dislikes based on the thirty-six hours they spent with me the prior Christmas.

“Ooh,” my mom will exclaim. “That potpourri cooker will go good with those floral dishtowels. Who got you that?”

“Apparently someone who finished her Christmas shopping back in February.” Note to self: give mom my wish list by January 31st. “Who's next?”