T’is the season to eat, drink, and be merry with everyone you have ever loved/met/waited in line for the copier with. By some marvelous stroke of luck I still get invited to holiday house parties even though I am the worst.
Why, you ask?
Oh it would take much too long and I hate talking about mys…JK LOL. Read on, lovers!
Unless I somehow physically strap my drink to myself in, like, a deerskin pouch, I will consistently lose track of it over the evening.
While peeing, I will count the number of pubes between the toilet and wall. More than 10 and I will spend the rest of the night thinking about the host’s hairy bush.
I will eat an unfair ratio of cheese cubes.
I will circle the room, chat, mingle and act like I don’t care about the remaining cheese cubes, then subtly swing by the food table every 5 minutes and load my plate afresh.
I will leave my plate in awkward spots, like mantles and the back of the toilet.
“Have you seen my drink?”
I will arrive early and ask if there’s anything I can do to help, and then see the cheese and get distracted.
“Wait, is this my drink?”
If something is gluten free I will glare at anyone else who eats it because, hello you have everything else on this table to eat and I don’t, and if your stocking was here I would blow my nose in it.
I will read all your Christmas cards and invent narratives about your relationships with the fake-looking families on the front.
I will judge any guest who doesn’t take off their shoes or boots. Like, I know your jeans look better with those boots, and socks are weird at a party, but this isn’t your home or a barn, Stefanie.
I will drink too much too fast and leave conversations mid-sentence because I spy someone or something sparkly.
I will ask you three times “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT CANDLE?”
I will eat all the nuts. Eleven months of the year I do not care about nuts. But then, December. December should be called Nutember. I don’t know. They make me so passionate I can’t think about anything other than the casual glee of tossing more than one sugared pecan in my mouth at a time.
“Pretty sure that’s my drink, STEFANIE.”
I will wash the dishes but I will not dry them. Everybody knows that’s the worst job in the world and I do it at home all the time. I may have depleted all your nuts and cheese but leaning against the counter and trying to dry the 67 crevices of a Tupperware bowl won’t bring them back.
I will talk shit about someone who is also at the party, thinking they are on the deck, and then blush hard when I think they are right behind me.
I will panic when I can’t find my phone and yank other people’s phones out of their hands looking for my phone because everyone is a thief when I can’t find my phone (which is charging in a “special place” so I won’t forget it.)
I will try my very best to not take a shit. If the nut and cheese combination becomes a gastro riot, I will have my trigger finger on the flusher and as soon as the byproduct hits the water, I will flush with gusto.
I will blame the terrible smell in the bathroom on Stefanie.
I will declare every 80s Christmas song as “oh my god, this is my FAVOURITE” then sing to the parts I know loudly. While clapping. And holding a drink that isn’t mine.
When it’s time to leave, I will try on the other coats on the bed. And then find my drink on your headboard.
Even if there were no nuts and you bought the wrong gluten free cracker, I will pull you in close, intimately really, and breathily exhale that this was the BEST PARTY EVER.
Merry Christmas, everyone! Well, not everyone. (Stefanie.)