Holiday Hangover

As much as I am trying to ignore it, it seems that it is finally the “Holiday Season.”  No matter how hard I try, I keep getting blasted with Christmas music, blinded by the big-dick competitions of ‘my house has 129 thousand lights and yours only has 128.9 thousand!’ and stuffed full of free cookies and candy canes.  Yes, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas which, in my mind, means only one thing–booze.

Before you start being all, “How can you think about booze when there’s so much holiday cheer and love and ponies and fluffy clouds during Christmas?!”  First, if you get that excited about Christmas and you are older than 10, you need to stop living in your parent’s basement, sell your teddy bear collection and move on with your life.  Or at least stop snorting your little brother’s  Ritalin.  Second, I am not a complete grinch.  I dig the holidays.  Kind of.  But my association of Christmas and being drunk is for two reasons–first and foremost, Christmas means booze because it means going Christmas shopping with my father.  And, if you know my dad, right now you’re probably thinking, “What?”  You see, while Christmas shopping for most people is going to the mall, fighting with bitchy, rich middle-aged housewives and spending upwards of an hour trying to leave the parking lot without committing genocide, for my father it is more accuriately called “Christmas shopping,” which, loosely translated means “spending 10 hours of the Saturday night before Christmas going around town to bars with ‘the boys’ and getting my son as drunk as humanly possible.”   Which he did.  Or, rather, he watched me do.    

That’s how I spent my weekend, Saturday night getting drunk to the point that when I went to Copilots parents’ house afterwards, I apparently left a trail of clothing from the garage to the bedroom which included my coat, both shoes and quite possibly my socks.  Needless to say, I spend all of my Sunday recovering, highlights of which would be sleeping until about noon, sleeping some more after my breakfast of Ramen, and, 18 hours after my last drink (about 8:30 pm on Sunday night) vomiting with my face buried in the handicap toilet at our local WalMart.   Not only did I feel like complete white trash, throwing up in a WalMart for God’s sake, but throughout the duration I had adequate time to reflect on the fact that I don’t think the toilet had been cleaned since the store opened 15 years ago.  It was that dirty.  So, I resumed vomiting.

Now, as I said, there are two reasons I equate Christmas with booze.  The second reason is, as much as I hate to admit it, I like getting drunk before I have to go to my Grandparent’s house on Christmas day.  I’m not talking black-out drunk or incoherent-drunk, but just drunk enough that I can sit and have a heated argument about abortion with my grandparents and their friends for an extended period of time without wanting to jump off the roof.  And that is how I spent last Christmas–arguing about abortion, not jumping off the roof.  To be completely honest, I was the one who brought this subject up and started the argument, a skill that I pride myself at.  And it was more of my youngest brother and I arguing with one of my Grandmother’s friends.  But whatever.

And, while I’m on the subject, it was a bottle of red wine and a bottle of rum that enabled me to call Shaba last Christmas at about 3:30 am (on Christmas day, mind you) and convince her that it would be a cool idea to go driving around NEPA for about 3 hours.   

Which we did.

Is it such a bad thing that some of my fondest memories of the holidays include me being relatively drunk?  I, for one, don’t think so.

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~ by sisypheanfeat on 23 December, 2008.

One Response to “Holiday Hangover”

  1. I’m more than a little disapointed that the drive did not take place this year.

    I’m longing for House too.
    Sigh.

    You never realize how awesome moments are when you’re in them. Except, maybe the El Rauncho experience. That I was able to stay present for.

    🙂 Miss you, hope 2009 is treating you well thus far.

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