Home with the Navs

First. Remember last year, I thought adding elbow holes in sweaters could be the next fashion trend. I'm seeing sweaters with shoulder holes all over the place this winter. I should be fashion blogger. Until that transition...

Coming home for the holidays after living alone is always a bit of an adjustment. For instance: I can't do my own laundry, my meals are cooked for me, I have to continually be ready when Mom asks what I want from the grocery store, delicious treats are constantly calling, the 86'' TV sometimes hurts my eyes. It's difficult, but I press through. I do always forget to bring home my lufa which throws a major wrench in my shower routine.*

Everyone knows I love my family. We all have our idiosyncrasies, that I believe each has embraced, so no one will mind if I share them. It's a difficult task to provide a window for outsiders into a week with the Navatsyks, but that's not going to keep me from trying.

I stop by Gail and Mitch's first. Colt, the three year old tornado, is extremely excited to see me, and I savor the moment, because soon enough, he will be asking when it's time for me to go home. Or our friendship will end because he trips over a pillow while playing tag. Ahh, the volatility of toddler affections. Briella, who's 8 going on 28, runs into my arms and within a minute asks if I have started dating the quarterback yet. I tell her I'm going to wait until he's legal to make my move.

Gail and Mitch are taking their kids to Miami in a few weeks. Gail is considering recording their vacation, putting it on Youtube and monetizing it. After all, it's about time they make money off their good looks. I agree, and if I didn't have school, I would definitely manage the production. Of course, Mitch would make me delete half of what he says, so maybe a reality show won't work. Gail could make videos coaching Moms to have their children sleep through the night. Or Mitch could tour the country giving motivational speeches. If not Mitch, Briella could. She is reenacting her inspirational speech: "You go hard. You better have nothing left at the end of the swim!" she had spurred her teammate to a relay victory.

Gail and I discuss her most recent nail salon drama - anyone who has entered the world of nail allegiance knows that switching between salons is a difficult line to cross without consequence. She had a procedure recently and is recovering very swiftly, as I anticipated she would. By procedure, I mean boob job. Mitch's gift to both of them. Yes, for everyone scrolling through pictures on Facebook and wondering: they're not real, and they're spectacular. I had to cop a feel, obviously. And don't worry, I know you're scrolling, because we do, too. And Mitch rolls his eyes but secretly enjoys our commentary. For anyone scrolling through my profile page, here's the synopsis: I have big thighs and this blog where I ramble about my life as if people care. Don't try to make fun of my forehead. We all know it's glorious.

Personally, I plan on botoxing my forehead to preserve the beauty of the dome selfie, so I'm in no position to judge another taking advantage of the medical advances at one's fingertips. Plus, I think after you have four kids, you have the right to do whatever you want to your body, and as our President-elect once proclaimed, "It's impossible to be flat chested and a 10." If there was doubt, Gail's now a ten. The addition to the Hewitt household does offer a multitude of material, and if Mitch were not in a position of civic service, this blog post would be a running recording of commentary. I will simply say: he's not demanding his money back.*

Phil and Courtny are in for a brief 24 hours during which we watch the 45 minute compilation Philip made of our time roadtripping through Eastern Europe together. And Courtney watches the whole video and laughs, which is why he married her, because most people would probably leave after five minutes, though I don't know why, because we're hilarious. The opening scene is the two of us belting out T-Swift. There is a lot of made up history on our self guided tours, that's what she said moments, complaining about the speed limit, and one scene where I molest a gummy bear. Pure gold.

Philip's trying a new method to wake up Courtny - bacon. She seems a little startled and even annoyed the first time bacon slides under her nostril as she sleeps, but the second time, she is much more amenable, and even seems to enjoy the bacon. They're prepping for their 45-day honeymoonth. Forty-five days seems like a totally appropriate amount of time. Any more may be unreasonable.

We manage to squeeze in a Christmas tree sleepover with Caleb and Bri, and while Courtny and Phil opted for a bed, I lay under the tree and talk with the kiddos about school, their little brothers, and sports. I hope they skip that stage when they are too cool for their aunts.

Christmas comes and goes, and the Cavs beat the Warriors.

The day after, I join Mom and Dad for dinner. They seem to go out more since no one lives with them, and they may be my favorite couple to join as a third wheel, because as of now, they are the only ones who pay.* I had forgotten to get Dad a present, and I saw this as the perfect opportunity.

"Excellent. I'll cover some of the meal, and that will be your Christmas present, Dad."
"So let me understand. We go out to dinner. You pay for yourself. That's my Christmas present?"
"Correct."
"How is that my Christmas present?"
"Because, Dad. You get to spend time with me. And you love me." Merry Christmas.

I do go out with a few friends one night. Mom informs me the following morning that according to the track your iPhone app, I was at Pub Frato then a Hibachi restaurant and somewhere else in between. Good thing I nixed the strip club idea; that would have been an awkward conversation over coffee.

The Christmas tree down, her latest mission is to get rid of my Playmobile Victorian house from childhood. I'm not totally ready to part with it. I'm not sure when or why I will have any use for it, but there's so many pieces, it seems wrong to say goodbye. Incidentally, that's exactly why she wants it gone. I hold my ground, though, by simply not responding to her pleas for me to give her permission to throw it away*, and she's giving me until age 30 to remove it from the premises, lest it be removed for me. It was in two boxes, but if stacked properly, it can be condensed to one, which is a minor relief for her. Win, win.

The Amish woman Mom befriended is cleaning our house, which brings the cleaning lady tally to two. I'm not sure what they do, though mother did say that when my dad's car lights hit the ground just right, you could see bits of dust. She would later find a bit more dust when the sun shone directly on the living room table at 5:07 PM. I contemplate how I can get these ladies to my apartment and really show them some dust, when Dad comes down with big news.

"Jim Lyons called the other day and said he met a shortstop that was better than me. I went on a diatribe on how that simply wasn't the case. Today someone posted a picture on Facebook of the 1973 All Star team. I was the shortstop. I sent Jim the picture and said, 'I rest my case.'" Additionally, Dad has tweeted at Kimberly Gildoyle of Fox's Five at Five, telling her to part her hair on one side or the other because the part down the middle is no bueno. It's been bugging him for a long time, so the household's glad that's off his mind.

Before heading back to Ann Arbor, I have communion with Mom and Dad, something they have started doing daily. Dad prays for me as he always does: that I would be a leader, not a follower, that I would find favor in the eyes of those I work with, that the right doors would open and every other door close. I give both a big hug, grab one final treat and hop on the road, grateful as always for such strong roots. And sad that I have to do my own laundry.

* Simple solution: spend two dollars on a lufa to keep there.
* I ran this section by Gail and Mitch and have interpreted their silence as tacit compliance.
* Every other couple, please feel free to step up your game to compete.
* Thanks for teaching me negotiating skills, MO 503.