We had lunch at the in-laws, who are wonderful people. Then my wife and daughters went to her cousin’s for her cousin’s daughter’s birthday party. She is one of the unfortunate ones with a birthday on or about Christmas. I don’t feel sorry for her, though, because she is, at three, a towering monster child, a blonde Frankenstein with feet nearly the size of my wife’s (who is an adult) (Gamma, who is more than two years older, wears her hand-me-downs); size doesn’t matter, of course, except she has what I think is a mean streak. And their family is outrageously dysfunctional, which can be entertaining provided one can maintain ironic distance; around the holidays, though, it is hard for me to be ironic, so I worked out instead. The tattooed shaved-headed guy from the tanning salon was there. Woet for Christmas.