It was a week or two before Christmas and we were having our annual lunchtime Yankee Swap with our group from work.

Yankee Swap: A gift exchange where each participant brings in a single, wrapped gift. The more humorous the gift, the better the swapping. Each gift should be relatively "generic" in its appeal (or lack thereof) since the giver does not know which swapper will end up with said gift until the very end. All (wrapped) gifts are pooled into a single pile. Each Swapper then draws a number from a hat which determines his/her swapping order. Swapper 1 picks a gift, and unwraps it. Swapper 2 picks from the remaining gifts and then can choose to keep it, or swap it with any opened gift (in this case Swapper 1). So-on and so-on such that Swapper 20 (if there are 20 swappers) opens the last gift and either keeps it, or swaps with any opened gift (in this case Swappers 1-19). Finally, since Swapper 1 never got a chance to swap, he/she is offered the opportunity to swap with anyone, after which time the swap officially ends (and everyone who hates their gift donates it to Kristen's mountain-o-toys that she has hoarded over her past four swapping-years).

Oh... and swapping is determined entirely by the person whose turn it is. Rules clearly state that you can NOT refuse to swap with someone. You must remain seated and accept the swap regardless of what (crap) you may end up with.

Kristen drew a number somewhere near the middle of the pack... a twelve (or something like that) out of 20 participants. Not bad! When her turn arrived she carefully inspected the gifts and selected what turned out to be a box containing four canisters of Play Doh.

By the display of Kristen's enthusiasm, you might also call them "four canisters of ecstasy". Everyone sat silently watching as she screamed, jumped, and giggled. Kristen continued to inhale Play-Doh fumes completely unaware at this point that people (after their initial terror at her behavior) had continued on with the swapping. Instead she remained in total Play-Doh-induced euphoria. She could see only in primary colors and continually inhaled deeply with her nose just millimeters from the nontoxic Doh.

Finally, the last swapper opened the final gift. And all eyes (except Kristen's, as she was oblivious to the world around her) fell to swapper number one: a guy named Eric with a magic eight ball sitting in front of him. Eric shook the ball and asked if he should keep his gift. "MY SOURCES SAY NO" replied the plastic orb, sending Eric across the room toward Kristen and sending Kristen into a spasms of withdrawal that no heroin-addict has ever rivaled. With each step closer, her convulsions and screaming (yes, convulsions and screaming) grew louder and more extreme. People were actually holding their ears. Kristen held the Doh tightly and squeezed her eyes shut, bent over like the (comparatively calm) cartoon people in the "Crash Procedure Pamphlets" on airlines. We all watched in horror until finally Eric backed off, probably in fear of his own personal safety.

Kristen was left somewhat dizzy, hoarse from screaming and partially blinded from the whole event. Okay, not really blinded but definitely emotionally drained.

To this day the Play-Doh sits on her desk, and people always politely ask permission before approaching the tiny primary-colored canisters.