Moscow Rule 10 - Keep Your Options Open

This is hard for me to do. Before I pour myself a glass of chardonnay - or in this case, a Jack Rabbit Slim, (the brilliant low carb cocktail that combines Jack Daniels and sugar-free lemonade, yum) I want to know the game plan and switch to auto-pilot. Otherwise, I am not at all relaxed, and high strung neurotic people tend to make crappy party hostesses. Just sayin'.


So I awaken on Christmas Eve when my children do...excited beyond description are they. Too cute. We'd gone through the motions of placing cookies and milk and an apple for the reindeer near the fireplace the night before, and I'd dutifully eaten a bunch, and left a few telltale partially eaten cookies to make the scene more convincing...even though no one wants to admit they still want to believe. They are happy to see that.

"Christmas" is a frenzy of colorful paper and ribbons and tags and tissue paper and squealing at the top of our lungs. What has taken weeks to purchase and artfully prepare has taken moments to unravel and spread across the floor plan of the first floor living space. Christmas music is on. Lights are lit. Cinnamon buns are baking. Coffee is brewed and being guzzled. Children are assembling and placing batteries and giving new things a whirl. All is right with our little world.

At about mid day, we all shower and dress to receive our first visitors. Wine is chilled, ice buckets filled, beer is in tubs on the porch by the outdoor Christmas tree. I've set a lovely table of all manner of nosh. All on festive plates and platters with holiday napkins and dishes. I intend to eat a millions grams of fat and carbs one small plate at a time.

Charlotte and her gang arrive. Drinks are poured and gifts are opened. This is how it should be. We are soon joined by more friends and then more friends and then a few more and there is lots of fa la la la la-ing all about the house.

But no Mom.

Dare I ask?

I do.

Charlotte has seen Mom. However briefly.

Evidently, the evening before, there arose such a clatter at the Lush household that there has been a change of plans.

Mr. and Mrs. Lush are evidently on the proverbial skids. On the back nine. In the final turn.

And though Estelle swears on her Mr. Bostons Bartending Guide that she and Bill and Mr. Lush had had nothing ("Nothing! Nothing I tell ya!") to drink, (was this party at 8 am?) leaving us to assume that Mrs. Lush had had more than her fair share from the mini-bar, (one of these things is not like the others...), it sounds like they wound up in the kind of argument that can only be born of gross over consumption of all manner of wine and spirits by people who could easily swing from laughing drunks to crying drunks to nasty drunks to fighting drunks.

My mother's explanation is that they had to get out of there pronto. (Mrs. Lush in reality probably told them to scram and flung a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort end-over-end at the backs of their retreating heads.) They grabbed their Vera Bradleys and vamoosed. But not to the safety of Charlotte's home, and certainly not to mine. To some other friends, the Snoots. So upset and scorched by indecency are they (the Lushes, according to my mother, had a wildly inappropriate conversation in their company...as if my mother would recognize propriety if it ever bit her on the ass...and that's how the chaos began) that they have taken refuge at the home of their other second tier friends, and will remain there licking their wounds and probably smothering them with Crown Royal.

So no Mom after all. No call to say Merry Christmas and we're so sorry we can't join you. Just more nothing.

As it should be, I suppose.

And my holiday party went on quite merrily. And my children transitioned from party to Mass to lair without incident, so joyous was the day. And upon my return home, I reflected on the day, what was and what might have been, and was in a truly peaceful place when Scott came to my door bearing lovely unexpected gifts.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.