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And then he moves in for the kill...

Unfortunately, I was unable to snap a photo a nanosecond after that last one, when he had his gaping, fang-filled maw over the babydoll's head.

The Army of Dolls resided on top of very tall pieces of furniture during our visit. I'm still a bit surprised that he didn't bring down the entire china cabinet in his babydoll bloodlust.

In lieu of babydolls, Chiggar busied himself by trying to steal every single bottle of water I drank while the bottles were at my mouth. At one point he attempted such a feat while I was stirring a big, boiling, popping pot of cheese grits. At which time I informed Chiggar, "You know, the Rev. Al Green found religion when a women threw a pot of boiling-hot grits on his back. If you don't leave me the fuck alone, we'll be recreating that 'come to Jesus' moment. Go eat a damn baby and leave me alone."

Clara Jane doesn't care much about The Army of Dolls. She's too busy digging her doctor's kit. So much so that gift-unwrapping came to a dead hault once she discovered the gift contained plastic scissors. "I don't want to open presents. I just want to be a doctor." Fine by me, Toots!

Clara Jane's idea of being a doctor is a bit skewed, though. She hasn't spent much time at the doctor, since she's been blessed with freakishly good health. Apparently, the time she hasn't spent at the doctor has been spent watching old episodes of "Saturday Night Live" featuring Theodoric of York: Medieval Barber. With a stethoscope around her neck and scissors in hand, she spent four hours doing this to her father:

The pained expression on his face? Not pretend, my friends.

I gave homemade gifts almost exclusively this year. I think the only thing I bought were two shirts for my dad, some tealights that smell like dirty hippy for my mom, and two cans of pirouette cookies for Grandpa Chuck, although I think he would have been happier if I'd handed over the Johnny Cash: Legend box set my parents gave me.

For my parents, in-laws, and grandparents, I did hand-made scrapbooks of the best photos I have of Clara Jane in 2006. Upon finishing the last one at 11:24 PM last Friday night, I swore that in the near future, all scrapbooking materials will be burned in a ritualistic ceremony on the backyard during the next full moon. I am completely over gluing shit onto other shit.

My mom likes illegal goods, and a few months ago she dropped the huge hint that she'd love it if I'd whip up a CD set of CMT's 100 Greatest Country Duets. Sure! No problem! There's a great gift idea! You see, back in my file-sharing days, I would whip up compilations of all those VH1 and CMT countdown shows that caught my fancy. I haven't done one in nearly four years, and I no longer do the file-sharing thing. No problem! I have a huge music collection, including tons of classic country. I'll have a bunch!

I had 20 songs. So, for the past two months, I've been checking out heaps of country CDs from the library. Because of the Patriot Act, there's a possibility that the government might someday check my library records and see that I once checked out a Toby Keith CD and had it in my possession for two days. You can't imagine the fear and dread I live with because of this.

Everyone else got samplings of the mountains of canned stuff I've been making since summer. The in-laws got 13 jars of assorted homemade jams, jellies, pickles, and sauces, all made with my very own hands. Did I mention the cookbook I got from them? Yeah.

Next year, everyone's getting a Fuck It Bucket.

On Christmas day, we participated in my family's annual 11-person domino death match. Do you have any idea how hard it is to conduct a game with that many people, especially when three of them are hard of hearing, half of them can't shut up, six of them are so consumed with cheating that they forget to play, two of them are horking loogies on each other, everyone's in a post-dinner stupor, and four dogs are fighting under the table with such a vengence that they keep ramming their heads into the table, displacing the dominoes? You can't accuse us of laziness; my family does love a challenge. In this case, the challenge of trying to keep track of whose turn it is. The solution: after you make your play, screech like a baby pteradactyl.

When you think about it, few of life's social problems can be solved with baby pteradactyl noises. I'm proud that it was my family who discovered one that can be. BWRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!

It was a lovely holiday, really. Much good family-time, especially since Clara Jane recently decided that her grandpa is a-ok. For most of this year she's been down-right scared of him, along with most men. She appears to be over that stage. For the three days we were in my hometown, every sentence began with, "Hey Grandpa!" Not only that, but she's also developed a fondness for Old Grandpa Chuck and she professed her love for my cousin Travis.

Christmas Eve morning, Clara Jane and I started our own little tradition: we made gingerbread men together, which she left for Santa. I always swore I'd never get gung-ho over Santa with my kids because I'm uncomfortable with the idea of lying to her about anything. But I did it, and she loved it. We went outside before bedtime on Christmas Eve and scattered glitter-studded oats on the lawn for the reindeers to eat.

Right now, that's what Christmas magic is to her - flying reindeer and the Santa story we've fed her. Hopefully someday she'll realize the magic from making the cookies in our pajamas, showing her great-grandpa her favorite ornaments on the tree, her father doing permanent damage to his neck while she cut his hair, a questionable dog attempting to eat the heads off her dolls, and awaking from her Christmas Day nap to the sounds of her extended family, screaming like prehistoric beasts. That's what it's all about, right?

Oh, and for the record, Baby Jesus doesn't have a monopoly on that "asleep on the hay" business. Lexi and her baby, Cash, are pretty good at it themselves: