Just writing about stuff...
|So, what do I want for Christmas besides an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock and “this thing”, that tells time? Let’s try this: For one thing, I’m done standing over here sipping hot chocolate like its my job talking to your Uncle Albert or Grandpa Munster or whoever the fuck this guy is. If I hear one more word about his colonoscopy last month, I’m going to snap. This guy is a tall glass of crazy and I am not thirsty. I want out of this conversation. That’s what I want.
I always loved Christmas parties up until the point when I met your family. Last year your little cousin knocked the tree over while chasing the dog and blamed it on me. I think he overheard me say it looked like something from FunHouse. Karma’s a bitch, let me tell you. This year I would have come prepared if only they made Flintstone’s Chewable Valium. Bare in mind that whole incident came after I slipped and fell you’re your driveway twice. If my name isn’t Dorothy Hamill and if that wasn’t the halftime show for the Icecapades, I don’t know what the hell else it could have been. Let’s not go down that road tonight though…
I’m stuck here at the threshold of Hell. Let’s face it. Tonight I’ll be schmoozing with all 5 of your great aunts, dancing with your mother who teaches me where to incorporate the hip thrust and finger point in Wham’s rendition of “Happy Christmas,” and listening to your father rant about how he’s the judge, jury and the executioner and how I should watch myself. Someone should tell him not to get his colon in a kink. Maybe we’ll leave that up to Uncle Albert. Nothing like a little Holiday cheer for you. I forgot to ask Santa for Depends.
Dinner will be filled with dry turkey, mashed potatoes from a box, frozen green beans, a store bought jello mold and a charred apple pie, compliments of the “chef.” I plan on sitting next to Grandma Shirley so I can have my cheeks pinched to the point of blood vessel poppage. You on the other hand, you sit next to your father and across from your mother with a 500 watt smile because your loved ones are all gathered around the table, no matter who had a colonoscopy and shared the spicy details. That’s why I love you. It’s a these times where I need to be heavily medicated to get through the evening where you step up to the plate and hit it out of the park. You simply make everything the best it could possibly be, even during Christmas family dinners where I feel a bit like a geriatric pimp. One look, one smile sent my way makes the whole evening, including the choking, drool, denture diction and your mother’s bath of Eternity perfume, worth while.
After that wonderful period of food, drink and discussion (which went from bad to worse to downright strange), it will be time to open presents. Joy and rapture. It’s almost like the second resurrection of Christ in this house. Your little cousin will once again make like the “Nintento 64 kid” and scream at each and every one of his presents until everyone’s ears start to bleed. I must admit though, last year I received a wonderful care package from the entire family from Bath and Body works. It’s still sitting in the trunk of my car. I’ll use it if I ever get stranded somewhere. While on the subject of shitty gifts, I really do hope this time around your father won’t get your mother another broom so she becomes upset. I don’t think responding with “Son of a bitch, Marcy…if the car breaks down you can ride it home,” helped any. Once again you’ll sit there and wow me. You get the worst of the gifts: underwear, a “Sex for Dummies” book or a calendar with semi nude shots of every TV star over the age of 70 where the proceeds go to charity. Oy, I’d pay for whatever organization it was to keep the calendar. You’re cute about all of it, though. You turn red and say it’s the best gift, or how you’re going to use it, even where you’re going to put it in your apartment…code for “I hate it.”
So back to what I want for Christmas, not to be selfish or anything. Aside from my official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock and “this thing”, that tells time, I want you. I want you home with me. I want to hold you all night in front of the fire place until we have to wake up Christmas morning and face Uncle Albert, your little cousin, your 5 great aunts, Grandma Shirley, your mother, father and your parent’s zambonied driveway all over again. Yes, I am going to Hell solely based on my behavior tonight, but you’re all I want this Christmas. No relatives, no stockings, no chocolate, no presents…yes, that even includes the Red Ryder…just you, love. Just you.