I have to be on my very best behavior. It's the 10 AM shuttle to luxurious Boston and I'm sure I'm not the only one of us on it. I've known for weeks there were more of us in the city, but I wouldn't recognize one by face. My therapist suggested I try and contact some of them ahead of time, but I refused. I don't know what they're like. What if they're dangerous?
     My head is spinning. Gridlock on the way to the airport is nothing compared to the commotion in my head. You would think I'm going to board a space shuttle not a family reunion. Why am I so anxious? I should be looking forward to it, but I can't and I can't remember if I took my personality pills this morning. I take them (again?) just in case.
     I smoke my last cigarette before I board. I wonder if I should throw out the pack and make it my last cigarette forever, but decide now is not the time. I'm about to meet 75 of my closest living relatives and I need to have the right to exercise as many of my vices as I deem necessary.
     Security is uneventful: common in that I’m put through the usual full-cavity search. I don't know why they always come after me. I call my mom (as I always do before take off), and she says, " I have seen you look suspicious."
     While the security guard goes through my bag I empty my pockets. I know I don't have any contraband, but for some reason I still worry she'll find something illicit, or even worse, something "personal" like the little plastic babies I sometimes carry in my pockets. They keep me company. I always start out with a handful and end up with just a few. I wonder where they go. Maybe she’ll come across the tiara I meant to pack in my checked luggage--or perhaps some overtly lesbian paraphernalia. Even though I'm as out as acid-washed jeans, I'm not in the mood this morning to defend my sexual orientation to airport security.
     I'm still beeping. My pockets are empty. My shoes are off and on their way through the X-ray machine, when I hear, "Can I touch you, ma'am?" I think to myself, she's not so bad looking, why the hell not?
     A few gropes later and permission to pass granted, its time to board. In my seat, I smile politely at the women in my row. I hope to myself that I don't miss the beverage service. Normally, I drink diet soda, but when I fly, I treat myself to the real thing. Unfortunately, I fall asleep before takeoff and don't wake up until landing, except briefly twice, when I wake myself up snoring, which always happens when I fall asleep sitting up (or lying down). No soda for me.
      "Welcome to Boston."
     I go to meet my family. I didn't think it’s been this long, but now, at 5'4'', I tower above my grandparents; I look up to my kid brother. We check into our rooms. I share one with my brother. He snores too.
     Getting all dolled up for the big night, nothing goes right. Nap #2 lasts 30 minutes too long and I don't even have time to shower. I have just enough time to shave my legs in the sink, a task that I have greatly underestimated. I don't wear skirts. I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea tonight. Just one more thing to make me uncomfortable.
     Legs are smooth and I'm dressed. All I can think about are the unsightly sock lines striping my calves, because I fell asleep with tube socks on.
     Thankfully, they fade before we get to the restaurant. It's a real meat-and-potatoes kind of place. Turns out my family are real meat-and-potatoes kind of people. I'm more of a moules frites kind of gal. I relax a little and settle into my first glass of wine. A button on my tuxedo shirt goes flying across the room. I consider the possibilities: I can either go down in family history as the topless cousin, or I can introduce myself to the woman with the largest handbag in the room in hopes that she has a sewing kit. I have a head start on Plan B, since I’m already wearing a nametag. My choice is clear.
     I scope out the room. My eyes fall on a pocketbook the size of my first apartment. I have to be smooth. I haven't seen this woman in ages; I don't want her to think I only came up to her for selfish reasons. On the other hand, my tits are hanging out and I don't want her to think I'm a whore.
     Turns out, Cousin Ruthie does have a sewing kit. We catch up in the ladies’ room while she sews my button back on. Fully dressed again, I'm ready to face the buffet, where no one is a stranger. I feel required to talk to everyone in line. The person in front of me, the people behind me, they're all family. I try to disguise my disinterest as shyness (or is it just the opposite?). Either way, I'm not sure it's working. I introduce myself to distant cousins. Across the room, I see my brother doing the same. He's better at it than I.
     Cousin Tootsie is leading my father through the family tree, identifying each person by job title, even though she has no clue where any of them work. " . . .and he's the vice president of whatever he does." Turns out I come from a long line of farmers, cattle salesmen, etc. And my great-great grandfather was a rabbi, which reminds me that I was never bat-mitzvahed.
     Coffee is served. I let the waitress fill my cup, but then decide against drinking it. I don't want to be too alert for picture time, when, of course, everyone has a chance with his or her camera. There are so many flashes it feels like the red carpet at the Oscars. When it’s over, we all say goodbye with useless promises to stay in touch.
     All I want is to take off this skirt. Before the hotel room door can slam behind me, I am back in my jeans. I haven't had a cigarette in over 12 hours and I want one more than anything. I have to make the decision of sneaking out of my room with some lame excuse and come back reeking of smoke, or finally admit to my 16 year-old brother that I didn't completely quit smoking like I told him two years ago. In the spirit of family goodness, I decide to 'fess up. I even go one step further and ask him if he wants to accompany me on a little walk.
     Back in our room we fall asleep quickly. It’s been a long day and we have early flights in the morning. First activity is breakfast with the grandparents.
     We all meet downstairs in the restaurant. Everyone's much more awake then I am. I'm faced with yet another buffet. Although I enjoy the hands-on alternative, there are just too many choices. Hopefully, I can get through breakfast without anyone noticing that I've been staring at the Syracuse University women’s crew team. I can't help it. Some of them are really hot. My brother notices, too.
     We take some more pictures, hug and kiss goodbye, and I'm on my way back to the airport, just 24 hours since my last flight. Again, I fall asleep before take off. No soda.
     I'm lucky this time. My bag is one of the first to come off the conveyor belt. I grab it and bolt over to the taxi line. There are about 30 people ahead of me, all on cell phones. The line moves pretty fast and soon I'm in a cab.
     Traffic.

DIRTY AL (aka ALISON ZACK) is a native New Yorker, professional Scorpio, full-time dyke, part-time Jew, brunch champion and webmistress to the stars. Visit www.dirtyal.com for more info.