Torrington, Connecticut

For normal people, Christmas is a one or maybe two-day holiday. For me, by virtue of having married into a vast Italian-Irish family, it is a weeklong, inescapable frenzy, and I am beginning to buckle under the strain.

Again, normalcy, the way things should be. You have dinner on Christmas Eve, unwrap presents that night or the next day, get drunk on eggnog, done. Finished. Move on.

We, that is hubby and myself, don't do that. We set out, this year, on Friday. We are still here, midway in our peregrinations to visit, it seems, every single individual in North America with whom hubby shares even the tiniest sliver of DNA. And at every stop along the route, the ritual continues: god-awful music - I am ready to exhume Bing Crosby and burn the remains - too much food, too much drink, too much too much too much. We do this death march by rental car; at last checking, the damned thing had recorded over five hundred miles of travel. This is not, emphatically, the way things should be.

And we're not done yet. The agony continues.