My Holiday Roundup

5 Jan

My holidays were a resounding success. Magnificent. Maleficent? No, not maleficent. That was just me using a fancy word that I didn’t quite understand–just like I did on Christmas morning:

“Dig in, Kyle.” My mother said, gesturing over the expanse of food on our counter.

“Mmm,” I said, looking over the glazed chicken. “Paltry!” My mother ran from the room, her face in her hands.

I meant to say poultry, meaning chicken. I actually said paltry, meaning “ridiculously or insultingly small.”

Thanksgiving was a warm, family oriented holiday for me. My family around me, I basked in their glow. We had turkey, stuffing, all the fixings. That night, we were all around the fire, some of us snacking on the last bits of pumpkin pie, some drinking hot chocolate out of mugs, clasped tightly in cold and eager hands.

“Hey everybody, I have an idea,” I say. All the air leaves the room. No one makes eye contact with me. “I have an idea. Grandma,” I gesture toward my grandma. She tries to act like she doesn’t hear me, but her eyes meet mine. I assume that now that it’s obvious my grandma heard me call her name, she’d ask me what my idea is. False.

“Oops! The old bladder’s a-tickin’.” She gets up and shuffles toward the bathroom.

“You old bitch,” I say. I figure if no one is going to listen to me, I might as well live it up.

New Year’s was pretty much run of the mill, though. I drank a flask of whiskey, kissed a dude I haven’t seen since high school, and got in an authentic Real World-style drunken shouting-match with an potted plant about something I can’t quite remember. There was one outstanding moment, however.

“Who you gonna kiss at midnight, Kyle?” My friend Derek asks, his female for the evening in tow.

“Well, who are YOU gonna kiss at midnight, Kyle?” I ask. I am terrifically drunk.

“All right, well this conversation is over,” Derek says, walking away. He comes back moments later with the girl’s best friend. “This is Catrina,” he says. “She thinks you’re really cute.”

“WELL,” I say, swaying as if on a ship, “She has a face that looks like mine.” I pause to point at my face and then hers and then mine again, “And I look like furkin–fuckin’–Shia LeBouf. Why would I want to kiss Shia LeBouf?” I look Catrina up and down. “–Even if he has a set of–” Here was a brilliant flash, a sharp pain at my temple, and the last of my memories from New Year’s Eve.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

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