Walking through the streets of New Orleans on Christmas Eve was a singular experience. There were palm trees wrapped with lights, ludicrously over-the-top decorations on shotgun houses, the smells of something deep and unctuous cooking in steamy pots, and block after block of pink and yellow flowers.

We ducked inside a historic tavern for oysters on the half shell. (Oysters feel no pain, my suddenly seafood-eating children assured one another.) Later we dined at a long table, my family in our Sunday best, grown up and civilized, with cloth napkins on our laps. I felt matriarchal and humble and blessed. That Christmas transcendence settled in, and I finally relaxed.

When we returned to the hotel suite, I arranged the stockings on the fake fireplace, put out bowls of snacks, opened a bottle of wine, and gathered plastic cups from the bathroom. It was not elegant, but it was the best I could do. My friend called from the lobby; he was on his way up. I handed out the stockings, paper and pens. There was dismay at the assigned sentiment. They smiled at the stockings the way they would have smiled at anything outdated and useless, with pained tolerance.

My friend walked into the suite, and I’d be damned if he hadn’t brought a young woman with him. My friend is younger than I am, but this woman was probably half his age and wearing one of those stupid knit hats with the ties dangling on either side of her face. I would hate her for many things before the night was over, but that insufferable hat was the first thing I hated her for.

“Who has the pot?” she asked brightly. That was the second thing I hated her for.

I clutched my pen and paper insistently, but the others had already set their stockings aside. Banter ensued, during which the young woman assumed the starring role of my Christmas Eve. She had a lot of stories. Some were about the desert. The stories went on and on until she loudly concluded, in an apparent epiphany, “I love rocks!”

THIS was sidesplittingly funny to some people in the room, but I’d had enough. I stood up and went into the bedroom portion of the suite and flopped down on the bed. My husband came in a few minutes later and rubbed my back as the party raged in the other room. It was Christmas Eve, and my family was stoned. Christmas was a bourgeois farce to them. I was furious at everyone, even at my sweet husband rubbing my back.