Another December and another parentally hosted holiday party complete with the traditional pre-party screaming match and subsequent meltdown. Upstairs, and struggling with a sweater that formerly fit, the mirror reflects the slightly fatter, less employable, more embittered version of 2013 me.
2013 was the year our old family mechanic dubbed me a “dick-less bitch-broad hussie” for double fisting a Christmas cosmopolitan and gingerbread martini. He alleged those were intended for “women and alcoholic children” and I retorted that Social Security checks were intended for “groceries and mortgages, not slot machines and dog tracks.”
It’s kind of a slurred blur of accusations after that. Bottom line, my parents are terrible at secrets, Dad had to replace the smashed mailbox, and our former mechanic is no longer invited to the Christmas party.
Regardless of his tactless tactics, the degenerate gambler had a point. This year, I resolved, I’d only drink manly beverages, lest I’d be spurred into another argument that results in blows being rained upon the new mailbox.
Downstairs, I parted the sea of adults passive-aggressively one-upping and non-competitively drinking and made a beeline for the bar. Eye contact or common courtesy could only result in unsolicited life advice and delaying my binging.
With confidence I pour myself a Jack and Cider Dissection (1). In this drink I separate out each part, throwing the whiskey directly down my face chute and the cider directly in the trash. It’s essentially me taking a pull of Jack Daniels and disposing of the cider to ensure another guest isn’t lured into diluting their delicious whiskey.
Dissection Number Four provides me with a solid, alcoholic foundation, just as a mousy, older friend of my mom’s fixates on me. Her mouth churns out gluten-free propaganda while mine churns through a gluten-heavy handful of mini cupcakes. She’s severely disinteresting. I turn my attention back to alcohol, pouring myself a Peppermint Bomb (2).
I drop the shot of peppermint schnapps into the glass of more peppermint schnapps and toss it back. Offended that I, like her ex-husband, prefer alcohol to listening to her babble, she storms away to complain and binge on rice-flour garbage snacks.
I’m giggling, I think, though maybe I’m just trying to stifle puke. Either way, I strategically stray away from my mom’s homemade Faux Butter Beer, seeing as it smells and looks like a hyper-sweet oatmeal-like slurry. Whatever, she’s been on a Harry Potter kick lately, though that doesn’t mean I can’t have a Reductionist Butter Beer (3) and still indulge my inner child by drinking an un-doctored can of beer through a silly straw.
Beer feels too slow, yet eggnog seems too fancy-boy. It’s like, if I’m going overindulge on egg it better be via a breakfast flood of yolk, cheese, and empty calories. With a little scheming and some ferreting through my kid brother’s art supplies I’m able to concoct the Nog2K (4). It’s all of the rum, none of the additives, and it’s all chased by a deep whiff of a Mr. Sketch cinnamon-flavored marker.
Some amount of time and rum later and my booze is being wrestled away from me. I’m second-guessing my decision to huff markers in the middle of the kitchen, though it is time for my nightcap, Cookies and Cream (5). Snatching the Baileys bottle, I chug while intermittently mashing the better part of a Chips Ahoy box into my face. Crumbs rockets from my jowels to form an almost-cloud; any remaining guests start leaving. No one wants to be present to witness the part of the night when I vomit post-consumer cookies into the tree stand.