View image | gettyimages.com We've all had them, those Christmas Eves that blew chunks, ones we would truly like to forget. For some families, they involve drunken brawls or fist fights, for others they might feature stone-cold pending divorce silence. And of course, there are the Christmas Eves where people are really, truly, life-threateningly sick. Like most folks, I've had my share of bad ones. On Christmas Eve of my 12th birthday, I got my period. Gave new meaning to doing the Christmas rag. I tried to hide it from my mother, who had already given me the talk. Not the nice talk about becoming a woman. The talk about what happens when you go to Girl Guide camp and one of your two pairs of shorts gets ruined. Vera was, after all, a glass half-empty type of 50s mom. So I did what all girls who have complicated relationships with their mothers' do. I didn't tell her. Unfortunately,I hadn't thought through the fact my mom would notice t...
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