Monday evening passed more-or-less peaceably from there on out. I did have to get up and use the bathroom a few times during the night, which was not unexpected after all the beer I drank throughout the day. My wife got up at about seven-thirty to get ready. I slept until eight.
The Village
Pounded a quick cup of coffee with my dad and stepmom before running out the door so that we could make it to The Village for church on time. Menaced some random strangers in traffic with my extra-aggressive holiday driving. It’s usually a forty-minute shot down Rt. 11, but I had only thirty.
When we pulled up to the church exactly three-minutes late, I was actually pretty relieved. We arrived at the end of the first reading (Old Testament) of mass. AFTER THREE MINUTES OF MASS.
This probably won’t mean much to the folks who aren’t familiar with the formula for a Roman Catholic mass, but for those who are, this should be significant. Would it help if I told you that the rest of the mass lasted only 37 minutes? I was clearly not the only person in a hurry on this, Christmas morning, 2007. Somebody had to someplace else to be, and I’m looking at you, father.
And please, tell me if I’m just paranoid or I really should be worried about the fact that my mother-in-law, who is the sweetest, most genuinely selfless and generous human being I know, saved a seat in her pew for my wife. And not me. On Christmas morning?
Enough about church. I’ve already spent more time writing about it than I did actually inside it just now. I smoked a cigarette on the way back to my in-laws’ house and finished my first beer before eleven.
We ate and chatted and exchanged gifts. Had a ham and a turkey for dinner. Played with my three-year-old nephew (a budding, gun-and-everything-outdoors-obsessed hunting enthusiast), and drank a number more beers. Didn’t bother checking the labels. Not even sure if it was one brand or several.
Hung around until a little before three. Wife was obviously driving for the rest of the day. My job in that situation is mostly to provide moral support, work the iPod and light her cigarettes for her. Got to my mom’s a little after three-thirty working on a solid holiday buzz. Chatted, grabbed a beer (Heineken this time) and exchanged gifts with mom and stepdad until the rest of the relatives started arriving.
In a week of memorable lunches and dinners that surpassed all expectations and included at least one cut from every animal that crawls, swims or flies, one particular meal was memorable for its food above all else.
The 15-Pound Prime Rib
Thank God that I wasn’t too pickled to enjoy my mother’s prime rib, mashed potatoes and asparagus. Too many times in 2007, the last and latest being last night (New Year’s Eve), I drank myself out of enjoying what could have been a really fantastic meal.
2008 New Year Resolution:
Stop doing that!
From the horseradish sauce to the mushroom gravy and every detail in-between, mom did an amazing job this year. I say that every year and it’s true, but this year was really something special.
After dinner and a full round of desserts, I was too full to even think about any more of those Heineken’s, and it was about that time that my cousin’s kids and stepkids (“s’kids,” perhaps?) started getting on my nerves.
Mom loaded us up with leftovers and cookies, and we set-off for home.
The Ride Back
Like the scene at the end of every episode of Boston Legal where Shatner and Spader drink Scotch, smoke cigars and rehash the lessons of the day, every major (and most minor) holiday ends with my wife and I in our car on our way back to Cleveland.
Neither one of us is usually much in the mood for Christmas music by this late stage of the game, so we fill each other in on bits of gossip that the other might have missed during the course of the day’s visits. At first, I hated the hour-and-a-half drive tacked onto the end of an already overfull day.
For at least the last couple years, however, I find myself looking forward to spending this time alone with my wife on the road. Sobering up or calming down. Decompressing. Laughing. Singing. It’s become an important part of our holiday tradition. We don’t talk about it that way per se, but it’s there nonetheless.
This year was no different.
For the first time ever, we felt pretty great when we arrived back in Cleveland — great enough to unload and unpack all our clothes, presents and other stuff we’d picked up along the way. I hope that’s a sign of things to come.
She didn’t last long after that. Our cats, happy to see us home after two days, followed her to bed. I still felt a little bit wired, though, and scratched out a rough little outline for this series of posts. Then posted it.
If you’ve made it this far and kept up with the previous three, you can probably guess what happens next, having spent the last four days with me.
Yes, I drank a couple more bottles of Miller Lite, smoked a few more cigarettes, ate a couple Christmas cookies and called it a night.
