91 Cheerleaders: The Niece Chronicles

So I'm in Northern California meeting my familial holiday obligations, visiting my parents, brother, sister and her clan, in advance of December 25 in part to reduce self-inflicted stress and in larger part to avoid airports around Christmas.

Also, we're sort of an autistic family, meaning we can go weeks without even hearing from each other for no reason of animosity. Then again, I have a friend in New Mexico whose only form of communication with me is a Christmas present, typically a DVD or CD box set of some sort. I just mailed him a tin of indigenouse Chicago cookies to see if maybe it would get him to call.

Which is to say, maybe it's me.

Anyway, not putting up with any of my bullshit is my 8 year old niece, with whom I could have starred in a movie about a door to door Bible salesman, if this were the 1970s or maybe a community theater production of Annie but that she doesn't have red hair and I'd have to shave my goatee.

Which is to say she is a bit of an actress, and I am her comic foil.

For instance, at a dinner party the other night, out of the blue she asks me if I cook for myself.

I tell her that being single I don't do much cooking but rely on the kindness of friends for many a meal. I have to remain popular in order to eat well, I say.

"Not gonna happen," she quips as if Tina Fey is writing her material.

Later that night I pay her $5 to tell my Dad who is giving a friend of my sister's his version of my middling life story, which she promptly does.

A dinner I tell her she is my favorite niece.

She says, "I am your only niece."

Well, I guess that means you are my least favorite niece, too.

A little later, after mulling that over, she says, "You know, I don't get you."

Get in line, I think, worried a bit that I have no appeal even to the Nickolodeon generation.

The next day, she is preoccupied with my love life, which seems a curious thing for an 8 year old to ponder. I try to change the subject by offering to open a restaurant with her (back to the food topic and how I will eat, I guess) and suggest that we buy a closed place we see along the highway. She comes up with the name Crabby Bob's after my dad and her grandpa, which will, of course, serve crab.

Still, she sees hope for me and wants to take me shopping for a nice outfit and maybe have me shave my goatee. Yet, she doesn't have friends with single moms (which, since she lives in a well-off town, would mean me dating way out of my league anyway).

It's not like I'm my brother, whom she believes needs a total makeover, she says. Ouch.

Yikes - to be that young and to be so daytime TV. Wait until she is that age of the 91 cheerleaders who performed at the halftime of a Golden State Warriors basketball game I attended tonight. (Aside: Could NBA games be any duller? Attending one almost made me want to see The Nutcracker. It was that boring.)

She'll either be their queen or way beyond that.

I'll probably still be single.