Our family spent the holiday commemorating the Birth of Jesus in Las Vegas. Because really, nothing says the Magic of Christmas like eating turkey over a roulette wheel.

Traditionally, I go home to St. Louis, where my family still lives, and my partner stays in the LA area where his family resides, since (as I like to say to perfect strangers) he and his mother are joined at the artificial hip.

But after 22 years of enduring the pain of winter holiday travel, and with the goal of joining the two families as one for this holiest of commercial holidays, I asked my parents if they would mind meeting us in Sin City. Perhaps unsurprisingly, since December in St. Louis means weather that even the Abominable Snowman would likely call indecorous, they agreed. Almost before I had even finished the question. In fact, I believe their exact words were, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

Now, my partner and I have been together for eight and a half years, and although our families have certainly met and socialized before, this was the first time that both sets of parents were to be together with us for an extended period. Which, for someone as concerned about equanimity as I, was a cause for some concern. Sleepless, panic-inducing concern. Concern that would likely require medication.

Does Vicodin come in eggnog flavor?

(MORE TO COME…)

A recent headline on NPR:

Fewer beheadings in Tijuana thanks to Calderon crackdown.

The report went on to say that hopes were high among shopkeepers that travelers would soon begin returning to the border city. Now, I could be wrong, but it seems a tad optimistic to position a lower chance of decapitation as a tourist draw.

This is like Iran trumpeting,

Now With Less Imprisoned Hikers!

Or North Korea declaring,

Torturing Dissidents Without Electrodes since 2010!

I can’t quite envision flocks of Americans lining up for a donkey show, secure in the knowledge that their odds of making it back to the hotel with their heads on are now 2-to-1.

I would suggest that we legalize certain drugs, regulate them heavily, and tax them, but that would make me a crackpot. Better to waste billions on a losing battle of drug enforcement. Because when it comes to tourism at the U.S./Mexico border, nothing says Trip of a Lifetime like winding up dead.

Sorry for the long blogging absence – my partner and I went on a cruise through the Panama Canal and I’ve just now recovered.

Oh, the need for recuperation was not a result of the cruise itself. No flesh-eating viruses broke out onboard. And contrary to popular perception of what happens to me on cruise ships, I did not consume an entire seafood buffet and have to undergo mercury detox. (But really, wouldn’t it be worth it for 35 pounds of tuna sashimi?) Other than a bizarre vibration from the engines ten floors below that made the bed in our room feel like a Magic Fingers on crystal meth (which resulted in a swift room change and lots of delicious apology gifts from the cruise line), the trip was uneventful.

It was the return to reality that required medication and counseling.

You see, for the first time in years, I did not check email once during this vacation. (Okay, once, only to be sure that our house hadn’t burned down.) I did not check voicemail. We never turned on the news in our cabin. For all I knew, South Korea had nuked North Korea, unemployment had hit 90%, and terrorists had taken over the Mall of America and were forcing hostages to buy edible panties at Spencer’s Gifts.

Being the compulsive workaholic freak that I am, this is unheard of behavior. The ding of a new email or text message sends me flailing for the phone (conveniently velcroed to my liver) like a hamster getting electroshock. Being more than three feet away from the device causes tremors and hair loss. Last summer when we were in Northern Europe, I was checking email in Estonia, Russia, Finland, Germany and Sweden (where all the vodka makes obsessiveness particularly challenging).

But unplugging this way was glorious. It’s not that I don’t care about my fellow man, mind you. To the contrary, I obsess about the state of the world constantly. It’s just that being so plugged all the time in means you’re in a constant state of anxiety. And spending twelve days with no concern larger than whether to have two desserts at dinner is pure, unadulterated bliss. It’s something akin to paradise. I returned from this trip more refreshed than I’ve felt since Carter was president.

As such, I’ve decided to extend this communications blackout into my everyday life. I’m going to boycott the evening news. I plan to avoid USA Today. I will shun the Facebook friend feed.

These small changes will give me a chance to stop and smell the roses and taste the sweet nectar of a slower, simpler life. They’ll help me rediscover the joy of worrying only about today, and only about things I can personally impact. They’ll make me a calmer, happier, more peaceful person.

But I should probably start slow. Maybe I’ll wait until 6 a.m. to check my email.