I had a plan to keep this all under control.

I kicked off our first night together with a wine and cheese gathering for the six of us in my parents’ room. And, like the inspirational story of the loaves and fishes, one glass of wine miraculously turned into three bottles; so by the time we stumbled over to the restaurant for dinner, we were all slightly tanked. This: a) quelled my nerves and b:) resulted in what I perceived to be a delightful meal fraught with witty (theirs) and slightly slurred (mine) conversation.

The next morning, we met at another hotel for brunch, a tasty buffet affair that included live music along with a cornucopia of free booze – champagne, wine, and a build-your-own Bloody Mary bar. And other than having to scream over the pianist, who had a Casio chock full of jazzy horn riffs and backing tracks, everyone got along like gangbusters. My plan to keep all the parental units distracted with liquor and food and music was, so far, working like a charm. Which was fortunate, because I really didn’t know how to score any Vicodin.

The following day, we met at the Pahrump Valley Winery in beautiful downtown Pahrump (which, other than the winery grounds, looks pretty much like it sounds), about 50 miles outside of Las Vegas. And there, as we took a winery tour, I began to notice a bizarre, and entirely unforeseen pattern emerging. My family and my partner’s family seemed to hug each other a lot. And trade stories about their lives and their children a lot. And laugh a lot. They seemed to just enjoy each other’s company – whether there were distractions or not.

By the time we all gathered for dinner at a steakhouse, it began to occur to me that it didn’t seem to matter what we were doing. Or where we were. It didn’t even seem to matter if I was even there (which is another story). It didn’t matter who was sitting next to whom or who might open their fat trap about something embarrassing. The only thing that mattered was having time together. And in that moment, I found myself able to just relax. And finally, totally, enjoy myself.

I don’t know what I had really imagined would happen. My parents are extraordinarily kind and gracious people. My partner’s parents are warm and chatty and delightful. And we’re all at a point in our lives where we realize that life is too short to spend time doing much of anything beyond just appreciating one another.

Maybe, at this ripe old age, I can finally start letting go of worrying about everything not being perfect all the time.

Of course, Vegas could start charging full price again. I could start worrying about that.

For those who’ve read Where’s My Wand, you may remember that Christmas at the Poole home was a cavalcade of gifts, as if The Price is Right showroom had exploded in our basement. As such, I wanted to create a memorable trip for my parents as a nod to the dozens of Christmases at which they had so diligently pulled out all the suburban stops.

I got them a suite at one of my favorite hotels, a super modern non-gaming property where the lighting is so dim and glamorous and the signage so discreet that you generally have no idea where the hell you are. Guests walk around with a determinedly blasé attitude, which tends to crumble a bit by the third time you pass each other in search of the elevator banks or the doors to the valet parking. But the rooms are super tasteful and the view from the ultra lounge on the 64^th floor is breathtaking – the strip is laid out before you like a giant Monopoly board of candy-colored skyscrapers. They even have an outdoor patio where the non-acrophobic can show off by draping themselves nonchalantly across sofas as the wind blows a $17 martini out of their hands.

I also bought them tickets to the Cirque du Soleil show, Ka (my favorite show in Vegas), a wildly inventive show about war and separation and the price of love, or something like that. I’m never quite sure what is happening in Cirque shows, but when the stage goes vertical and warriors continue to battle on it, dissecting the storyline seems to take something of a back seat.

And I made reservations for a winery tour – yes, Virginia, there is a winery – and several semi-glam meals at which the six of us would toast the Immaculate Conception, the Three Wise Men and the Four Aces my mother-in-law was hoping to score on a video poker machine.

Mind you, I have about $1.98 to my name. This stuff was only possible because Vegas is still hurting, deals abound, and I actually enjoy scaring that stuff up online as I sit watching Modern Family or Oprah Winfrey’s Master Class: Dina Lohan.

I did all this to make a memorable trip for my parents. Really. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. After all, they have been ridiculously (and often imprudently) supportive of me my whole life. Whatever concerns they might have had about my sundry stupid life choices, they charitably kept to themselves.

Oh, sure, I suppose it could also have been a bid to gloss over any strained moments that might arise. After all, this was a meeting of the Mexican and Midwest mafias. And my book was sure to come up.

But that’s just silly. Right?

(More to come…)

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.