How long do you have to be away from your family and friends before you feel less guilty about looking at their photos on Facebook to see if you still remember them? That long huh? Damnit. I’ve been away from my family, out here in the desert (for most of it) since July 2007. When I return home for Christmas this year, landing in cold and wintry Edmonton on December 17, a mere 893 days (not that I had to crack out an abacus or anything) has passed since I saw their teary eyed faces. Well, we did say goodbye at the airport and, as per normal when the family favorite and most-gifted and well liked of the siblings goes off there were tears. My sisters, though, probably had tears of happiness as it meant that perhaps mom would show them an ounce of the love that she showed me. They were forced to live in my turbulence for far too long.

Damn near 900 days! Is that too long a time for a mom to be separated from her favorite and most-spoilt child? Surely, that wanton lack of traveling home (especially since the company does provide one return flight home per year – although I only got mine upgraded to Canada recently because they couldn’t figure out why I travel with a British passport and live in Canada) should lessen my value as a man, as a family member, and as a son? New flash for you – it doesn’t!

And now that the flights have been booked and paid for (at a mere $2161.33 US each) by the company, it is time to polish off the niceties, brush up on my ass kissing skills, and remember what it is like to be the good brother and doting son. Obviously, I’ll be so out of practice I’ll need the first 10 days of the vacation to remember the names of my family members! Okay, it won’t be that bad… I hope.

This isn’t just about going home for the first time in over 2 years though. This is about introducing Kirsty, the fiancée they have only met via email and telephone calls, to the wonderful and wacky people that make up my immediate family. They say “to be born Welsh is to be born with a song in your heart”, and yes, it is true. But I also think “they” should say “to be born Welsh is to be born slightly mental and full of life”. That, in a nutshell, is my family. We are all a little bit mental and I wouldn’t change that for all the tea in China! I’m not a big fan of Chinese tea anyway. I don’t particularly like green teas or anything remotely different than a nice orange pekoe or the occasional boring breakfast tea. It’s a good thing my favorite position is the missionary position or people would think I’m boring. Lol. Just kidding. I’m a virgin. Still. Again. Whatever.

For 18 days the spotlight will be on Kirsty as well. She’s the one they’re all going to be judging. Lol. I’m making this sound worse than it is. My family will just assume she’s not all there because you have to be missing a few parts to want to spend even an hour or two with me – let alone the rest of your life! She’s already my mom’s favorite (only because Kirsty is a complete kiss-ass and replies to emails where I don’t). And once my mom found out Kirsty liked liver and onions I swear they shared some sick Hannibal Lector kind of slurping noises through the phone. All that was missing was the Chianti and fava beans. It’s just not right.

Of course now, just about 2 months from the date of departure, the Christmas present list is being perfected. Kirsty, the little show-off, bought some small gifts for my nieces and nephew a few months ago. They’ll all think she’s the dog’s bollocks until I tell them Kirsty and I came across a massive camel accident and she plucked these items from the inside of one of the camel’s second stomach. The contents of the first stomach were unidentifiable so we salvaged them and gave them to our co-workers before we left. Hey, who couldn’t use the finger of a Bedouin?

My list, the glorified “you thought that after all these months I would simply go out and buy you something cheap from Canadian Tire when I returned home a week before Christmas” extension of my planning is nearly complete. I’m struggling coming up with an idea for my nephew. He’s 9. As mentioned in Kirsty’s blog a couple of days ago – the Internet isn’t much help when finding gifts for a 9-year old boy. Normally, dad is the toughest one to buy for as I refuse to honor his wishes when he asks for “socks and Old Spice.” Not this year. His gift is already sitting at my apartment, waiting to be packed up with the rest of the gifts.

The ladies (my mom, 2 sisters and 2 nieces) are all getting a variation of the same thing (you know how hard it is to come up with 5 different yet artistic shapes for a lump of coal?). My 2 brothers-in-law are both getting Arabian porn (there is nothing a Dromedary camel won’t do if pushed in the right direction)! Okay, they aren’t getting Arabian porn. I’m not saying what they’re getting because even though they are far removed from being children I still don’t want to spoil the surprise.

We’ve rented a car so we won’t be depending on anyone to drive us around and we can just hop in and leave anytime we want. We had to pay for that though. This also means we can drive ourselves to and from the airport so no one will have to stand outside the departures’ gate and cry when we leave. They can cry in the privacy of their own homes. There’s something oddly romantic about that isn’t there?

Whatever happens; whether we are run off our feet or whether we can just camp out on a sofa and watch movies until the cushions form an indentation where are butt cracks are resting, one thing is for certain – Kirsty will no doubt share a few laughs with my sisters when mommy’s boy returns home.