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Do you know how many times a person can listen to the *NSYNC Christmas album before the need to start a body parts collection takes over?

I do.

The answer: around five.

This morning alone, Andrew’s spinned it twenty times (insanity – thy name is Buffy).

Justin Timberlake’s falsetto crooning ‘Silent Night’ is blaring out of my stereo and I donning my Vickie Secrets robe and fuzzy slippers, am forced to get out of my extremely warm bed to pad down the hall towards the living room. Towards a very dead, little Christmas elf who’ll soon be missing a finger or two…or three or four, but really, who’s counting?

Andrew’s wearing this stupid Santa hat (could’ve sworn I burned it) and hanging garland on the fireplace – my fireplace, that I distinctly want garland free –

I knew I should’ve left the Brits to deal with his scrawny ass, but Andrew’s kinda like a stray puppy that you find wandering on the side of the road. You pet ‘em, you give ‘em a bite of your Snickers, and then he follows you home and pees all over your rug.

Believe me, I tried to get rid of him. Everyone tried. Andy managed to spend three months in his very own, London flat before he moved out (something to do with his landlord's supreme hatred of Red Dwarf, I think) and bunked with Giles – sadly for only two and a half months of wacky ‘odd couple’ antics.

I couldn’t bear to see him suffer any more and broke like Humpty Dumpty when Giles begged me to take the munchkin back to the states. According to him, by trying to play secretary, Andrew was getting in the way of Council business (i.e. the ‘great file cabinet fire’), and apparently there had been more than one instance of him walking in on Giles in the shower…

Giles. Shower. Naked. Naked!Giles. Ugh! I need a moment to restore my belief that Giles doesn’t even have man parts…

Breathe in. Breathe out… Breathe in. Breathe out…

Moment over. I’m good.

Andrew doesn’t notice me standing directly behind him. He’s singing along with Justin at the top of his lungs and briefly stops hanging the garland to do a Christina Aguilera hand move, complete with voice inflection…

"I thought I said nothing Christmas-y," I snap and can’t help letting out a snort when he squeals and ends up ripping the garland and surprisingly really pretty red bows to the ground.

He scrambles to turn the stereo down (7th layer of hell, home to violent assassins, tyrants, blasphemers, and ‘Under My Tree’ on repeat…), and there’s this look of panic on his face. Definitely a ‘puppy who piddled the carpet’ kind of look…

Knew that stray dog analogy was spot on.

"Buffy!" he shrieks my name and gives me a lopsided smile. "I’m sorry, did I wake you?"

"No. Totally the fault of Lance and JC…" (thank you Dawn for going through that ‘five-dancing boys is so a band!’ phase)

"Their rendition of ‘Winter Wonderland’ is almost perfect, isn’t it?"

All I have to do is fold my arms across my chest and he knows…

Puppy-look #105 (remorseful, please don’t take away my milkbones) is locked into place.

"I know you really didn’t want to do the Christmas thing, but a little decoration won’t hurt." Andrew smiles like a greasy used car salesman. "Just the gar-land…" He painfully drags the word out, "I won’t even plug in the light-up Baby Jesus’s…"

(Jesus’s?! He bought Jesus’s? Or is that Jesusi? ) "No."

"I see you’re still doing your Grinch impersonation."

Great. Early morning snark from Dawn – my holiday’s off to a wonderful start!

"Could’ve sworn we all agreed not to make a big show of Christmas this year…"

Dawn gives me this look that screams teenage indignation and kinda makes me worry if my head will explode. "Garland is a big show?"

"It’s more show than I wanted."

"…The Grinch’s heart was three sizes too small…" Andrew says offhandedly and I have to glare at him, for I am the Christmas Nazi…

And Christmas Nazi is on a mission not to play into 25% off sales or battle bloodthirsty mothers over the last Tickle Me Elmo (for Uncle Dave’s little pile of stunted growth), and Christmas Nazi, will not under any circumstance, leave milk and cookies for some jolly, fat bastard who…

Is that – Jingle Bells?!

My mobile’s vibrating all over the kitchen table with that tune pouring out of it and Andrew lets out this high pitched squeal that I think is supposed to be a laugh –

"Cute, isn’t it?"

Breathe in… Breathe out… ringing phone… kill Andy later…

"Hello?" I answer. "Claire?!" A quick glance at the clock – it’s flashing 6:30 a.m. Claire actually knows 6:30 a.m. is a real time?! "You’re calling me at six in the morning – you do know it’s morning…"

Giles created some pretty high standards where the Watcher gig is concerned and I like to think of my three weeks on the job so far as being very fruitful –

"You’re what?! How – wait, never mind the ‘how’, I’ll beat the explanation out of you later." Running a weary hand through my tangled hair, I sigh, "Give me twenty minutes."

Even if my Charge is currently being held on five hundred dollars bond at the Boise County jail – still fruitful…

"What’s going on?" Dawn asks concernedly.

Giles and hell even Wesley never had to bail me out of jail! And I don’t remember anyone mentioning having to put your house up as collateral as a possibility of the job when I took the oath!

"That wacky Claire, just keeps ya guessin!" I deadpan as I head over to the coffee maker. Must have caffeine – must have sweet nectar brought from little Hispanic men on the back of donkeys…

"That was Claire?!" Dawn exclaims. "Claire’s awake before two in the afternoon?!"

"Funny thing…" I begin while pouring water into the back of the coffee maker (God bless you, Juan Valdez), "the Boise County jail is open twenty-four-seven."

Andrew gasps. "She’s in jail!"

The sound of my brew – uh – brewing calms me. Like being doused with spray from the shower that’s exactly the right temp, not so hot as to scorch an entire top layer of skin and not cold enough to give you pneumonia.

I glance over my shoulder at a still stunned Dawn and Andrew and calmly ask them. "You think my Slayer being locked up in jail will be a bad reflection on me?"





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