Goodnight and Good Luck

I visit the bathroom once again, and upon exiting, find myself confronted by a staggering Bill who seems a little confused about where he’s going. Scott has just gone into the loo upon my exiting it, and Bill seems to be hell bent on going in there himself. (Hello, ocupado, senor!)

And he is teetering at the top of the stairs. But there are only six steps separating him from the family room, so a broken neck is unlikely. (We'd never get that lucky.) A broken hip and a bloody face, much more probable. Whatever the damage, Scott and I would be trapped by his lethargic carcass blocking the egress. It is a disaster in the making.

Luckily, Estelle comes clicking along in her heels to guide him like a hospital orderly up the stairs in the general direction of their bedroom. I am sure she will have to assist with disrobing and pushing his big lard ass into the bed. Lucky lady. At least she can wash her hands of him for the night. Good riddance. Thank God that’s over!

She returns to the living room to announce as she has so many drunken Christmases before, “Poor Bill, he’s so tired. He didn’t get any sleep at all last night. And then of course today there was all the driving. He’s just exhausted.”

Be that as it may, Mom, he’s also shitfaced. And you drove for two hours today. Hardly the Indy 500. Stop making excuses and let’s call it what it is.

Bill comes to Christmas every year, puts away more booze than a sorority on Spring Break, gets loud and insulting, tells the same old stories over and over again, repeats the same off-color jokes, gets too familiar, gets even louder still, makes inappropriate comments in front of strangers and impressionable children, passes out abruptly in the middle of the party (often so abruptly that he is mid-chew, nearly choking to death in the process) and then you push, drag, or carry his leaden ass up the stairs to bed making the same old lame excuse about fatigue, as if anyone is buying it. Anyone too fatigued to make it through dinner should have skipped the party to begin with. Or should have made a graceful exit at the first sign that he’d be nodding off while the hors d’oevres are still being passed. (Of course, passing out sort of sneaks up on you.)

But to admit even half of that would be too big an admission. She is guilty of such things herself.

Before she fell out of favor with her BFF, she’d hot foot it out of Charlotte’s party early every year after rushing everyone through gift opening and then doing a bunch of dishes so no one could say she ate and ran. She’d use the excuse that her dear friends were preparing a beautiful meal and they “really couldn’t just not show up.”

Sure you can. You tell them way in advance that you are spending Christmas Eve with your family and will not be home for dinner. Don’t go to the trouble for us. Or even better, join us all at Charlotte’s!

But then that wouldn’t involve dirty jokes and blender drinks that have more than once rendered my mother incapable of making it all the way down the hall to bed on her own steam.

And throwing up. What septuagenarian do you know that drinks to the point of puking? Have yourself a mudslide, Ma. It is the breakfast of champions.

So, so far, this is par for the Christmas course in my family. We have a family calamity (Joe), an outrageous drunk (Bill), the usual denial (courtesy of Estelle), and loads to rehash over cocktails at the post-game wrap up, which can start the day after Christmas as soon as Bill and Estelle have rushed back to nothing five states away.