I could be at home in my flannel pajamas watching A Christmas Story, Best of Saturday Night Live Christmas (Schweaty Balls, anyone?) and my favorite sappy holiday flick, Love Actually. But am I, you ask? Am I curled on my couch with peppermint-schnapps infused cocoa and Scott Farcus? No, I am not. I am sitting in an office in an itchy wool skirt and tights that make me feel a bit like a breakfast sausage.
Soon, I will go to my small hometown for an old-fashioned, obligatory Christmas. Because it is unbearably rural, these trips are traditionally coordinated with my best friend who now lives in NYC. We get quite bored.
Because B.'s dad is the mayor and her brother is the town cop, kidnapping the baby Jesus from the courthouse square, holding him out the sunroof of Mr. Mayor's Firebird while cruising cross-town laps is frowned upon. So last year we got drunk at the Stag.
Patrons of the Stag are predominantly male, look over 50, work at the local plastics factory, haven't touched a razor in a decade or seen a woman under 60 in as long, and think that the District of Columbia is an island in the Caribbean.
Music stopped when we walked in. We reconsidered. Just then, a fellow half hidden under a birds-nest beard called out to us by name. It was the guy who used to buy is beer in college, who we hadn't seen since 1993, who proceeded to buy us shots of Goldschlager until B. got so drunk we had to call her brother. It just isn't Christmas until a 6'7" cop walks into the bar, tosses your super-hammered best friend over his shoulder muttering, "You are such a dumb ass" to her and the guy who bought you beer 15 years ago shouts "Are you still single? Can I get your number?" as you open the police car door so Copster can toss her in the back seat.
This year there will be no Goldschlager. Except the bottle I buy B. as a Christmas gift.
1 comment:
Oh my god you are the meanest friend ever. I love it.
Big red bow on that Goldschlager, honey.
Post a Comment