Everyone has a holiday party story. All are memorable even though there are some we’d like to forget. Following the Vegas rule of, “What goes on at the holiday party, stays at the holiday party,” brings us peace, comfort, and joy knowing that it’s a no holds barred evening.

                Something happens to adults at holiday parties; we relive our youth by doing and saying things without a care in the world. I’ll never forget one year I started drinking and didn’t have anything to eat, the usual thing that happens at parties, and found myself where I began to slur so I began to eat cheese and crackers to keep myself in control. Yes, I had fallen victim to the typical holiday party excuse for the way I was feeling; I blamed everything on the fact that I hadn’t eaten. As the night progressed, I met new people, danced my ass off, and had the time of my life; all accomplished on cheese and crackers!

                 Making my way for “one more” at the bar with my new found friends, it hit me. I had crossed over to the point of no return. The place where you think you can function at a normal state but there’s no way in hell you can. So the only way to make it through the rest of the night is to plant your ass on a chair and watch the show that, at this point, mimics an LSD trip and you wait for a ride. At this party in particular, I swear I saw someone dancing with a plastic doll that looked like Mrs. Claus.

                But at that point, my vision was impaired and my speech was best to be kept at a minimal because I sounded like the elephant man. Unless there was a speech pathologist in the house for translation, mum’s the word. I just prayed to God that I could get up and not have to be escorted out of there via wheelchair. After I left I was never able to justify what I saw even when I get flashbacks in February of visions of plastic dolls dancing in my head. There’s nothing I can do and no one I can ask because, “What goes on at the holiday party, stays at the holiday party.” After the party, all of us seem to always have the same wish; that we don’t see someone from holiday parties past who will break the rules by asking questions like, “Do I know you? I feel like we have met before but I can’t seem to pin point where?” Or bluntly say, “Hey. I remember you from that party, you’re the one that….” Yup, it’s the “fuck me moment” that none of us ever want to encounter and we deny that it really was us even if we were at gun point.

               One afternoon, while visiting the doctor for a sick visit, I had to be seen by another doctor because my doctor was sick as well. As the new doctor walked in there I was faced with an “oh my God, what the fuck” moment. There, standing in this 2×4 examining room with me, was my holiday party flashback LSD trip. He was the one that was dancing around with the plastic doll and I thought I was hallucinating. I tried as best as I could to not make eye contact. All I kept repeating to myself was “Breathe, just breathe. Everything is gonna be okay. Thank God this isn’t a gynecologist visit.” I played it cool and so did he. Both of us following the “what goes on at the holiday party stays at the holiday party rule.” Hell, we’re adults and professionals. We know when we gotta work and we know when we can play. After he asked me lots of questions and made his diagnosis he said, “Well here’s some medicine, I’ll save you a trip to the pharmacy. Just go home and rest. And there’s no need to make a follow up visit you should feel fine in two days. He then escorted me to the front desk and told the receptionist that I was all set my co-pay is taken care of by him. He shook my hand and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Then he gave me a wink and walked away. All I kept thinking to myself was, “That son of a bitch knows damn well who I am just as well as I know who he is.” But we play by the rules and I really like and respect him for that. So next time our paths cross again at another party and he decides to dance with a plastic doll, I don’t give a damn. At least I know I’m not hallucinating, and if I am, it’s good to know there’s a doctor in the house that will have my back. Ahhh, the holiday parties! All I can say is ya gotta love ‘em!

As this week brings the “out with the old, and in with the new,” and you’re taking down the decorations and the tree, make sure you don’t forget about the Christmas collection…..

                 Back in the day when the Christmas season hit, I couldn’t wait for December 1^st just so I could unlock the Christmas drawer. Every year without fail, I would open up this drawer and reveal my treasure collection of Christmas clothes that I would wear for the entire month of December. You name it, I had it: Hats, scarves, sweaters, vests, turtlenecks, pants, socks, mittens, booties with bells, earrings, necklaces, and pins. At my peak, I had such a large selection that I could wear everything up until the 25^th without wearing anything twice.

                I started this collection on a very small scale, which was one or two things, back in B.C. (before children). Then soon after the kids were born my collection expanded to half a drawer. By the time the kids hit pre-school and elementary school, my collection grew to two drawers, half a closet pole, and its own jewelry box filled with my Christmas pin collection. Girl of my heart Madeline Albright would be ever so proud of me if I showed her my precious collection. Each December I dressed like one of Santa’s elves, spreading joy and candy canes to all the kids I came in contact with. From the schools to the stores, the kids would be drawn to me like a magnet. One year, I went through more candy canes in the month of December than three Halloweens combined. I was requested by my kids’ teachers, teachers from other classes, and other schools to make a memorable appearance at their Christmas parties. All with hopes from the kids that they would not only be given candy, but given a chance to be one of my chosen ones that I say me famous words to: “Come over here and pull my pin,” to see what my magic pin would do. From lighting up to singing songs to even squirting water, my Christmas pins were part of my signature Christmas attire that made me famous.

                For almost a decade I dressed in my Christmas collection for the month of December acting as if I had a contract with the North Pole making $500 a week plus benefits to dress like an elf and spread Christmas cheer to all the kids. Then one day my Christmas collection gave me a reality check. While Christmas shopping one day, a woman in “street clothes” asked me what time Santa would be back to take a picture with her son. I looked at her and said, “I have no idea. Maybe you should ask someone at the service desk.” She replied, “I did, and they told me to find one of Santa’s elves and ask them.” I looked at her and said, “Um, sorry, I’m not one of the elves,” and she said, “Oh! I just figured by the way you were dressed that you were one of Santa’s workers.” That’s when it hit me. I was so flustered that I left the store as fast as I could, looking like I was running from the paparazzi. I got in my car, took off my Santa hat and my clip on Christmas tree earrings, pulled down my visor, opened up the mirror, looked at myself and said, “Oh my God. That broad thought I was a fucking elf. What the hell am I doing? I’m in my fucking thirties and I’m dressing like an elf?”

I went home, got a garbage bag, and began throwing all the Christmas clothes from my drawers, the Christmas jewelry from my jewelry box and all the Christmas clothes from my closet into the bag. I then took off my “elf costume” and since that day, I have never, ever dressed like an elf again. Many years later one day, while having wine with my girlfriend, I pulled out a blast from the past Christmas picture of me dressed up as an elf. As we laughed hysterically, all I kept saying was, “What the fuck was I thinking?” She responded, “Well, that was back in the day when all you did was drink coffee. You’ve come to your senses since you moved to wine and vodka.”

                As I poured myself another glass of wine, I put my fur coat on and said, “What do you think about my Christmas collection now?!”

1. I didn’t want anything for Christmas. Just us together makes me happy.
2. You’re not leaving early like you did last year.
3. I heard you didn’t go see your grandmother’s Christmas tree?
4. Don’t ruin my holiday.
5. God willing, I hope I’m here next year.
6. Don’t yell at the kids, it’s Christmas.
7. I don’t want to talk about that on Christmas.
8. It’s Christmas, I want everyone to be happy and eat slow.
9. A week to prepare all the food and it’s over in fifteen minutes…
10. Next year I’m not cooking!

And finally… “What the hell am I gonna do with all this food?!”

Peace, and Merry Christmas!

                Having cocktails with my girlfriend one day she asked me if I started my “Christmas Wish List” this year. I sat back in my chair, took a sip of my wine, and pulled out a pen and paper and started making my list and checking it twice.

                Dear Santa, I wish…

1)      To never clean again; to have the freedom to get up in the morning, leave the bathroom a mess, my bed un-made, and dishes in the sink and not have an anxiety attack about the “double work” I would have to do when I get home.

2)      To never do laundry—I’ve seen enough shit roll-ups in my time that would have Arm and Hammer throwing in the towel.

3)      To never dress a man again—if a 45 year old can’t look in the mirror before he has to go through inspection knowing he may hear statements like, “You don’t match,” and, “Your shoes are on the wrong feet,” he doesn’t have the right to have a grand mal seizure temper tantrum on the floor and call me a bitch.

4)      To never again have this question cross my mind at two o’clock in the afternoon so that it ruins the rest of my day to the point where I can’t even function at work at my highest level: “What the hell am I gonna cook for dinner?”

5)      To have a restful night’s sleep without being waken up by the sounds of the “21 gun salute” or snoring so loud that it sucks all the oxygen out of the room and I can’t breathe.

6)      To never again have to deal with any extended family matters. I now follow the “don’t call, don’t ask and don’t care” policy because I have my own problems.

7)      To never again take on being everyone’s personal assistant, secretary, life planner, and taxi driver. My new motto is, “figure everything out yourselves, make your own phone calls and arrangements. I’m going on strike.”

8)      To go places where my husband has planned for the family to attend and then bitch and moan the entire car ride because it’s somewhere that I don’t feel I necessarily want to go. And not to mention he could have just gone himself to represent the family.

9)      To never multi task for anyone else ever again besides myself. It’s the reason why I am making this list in the first place.

10)   For my husband to lose his life time membership in “the comfort zone” and give up his rights to the TV remote, A.K.A… the clicker.

11)   To have kids who understand the meaning of, “this is my house” without me having to stand up for my rights and form a picket line outside with police surveillance each time they don’t abide by the laws of “my country.”

12)   For my husband to feel what I feel by “getting his period” and having to do all the things I deal with on this list while he is doubled over with cramps and hemorrhaging all without Advil!

13)   And finally… I wish to come home to the aroma of comfort foods filling the air and the sweet sound of a wine bottle being opened. And not because I got up at 6 am and put everything in the crock pot and picked up wine myself, but because someone else decided to do something they never did before.

That is my ultimate Christmas wish list. My girlfriend looked at me and said “Well, wishful thinking is a start. Don’t stop believing.” Not convinced by her words, I put down my paper, sat back in my chair, picked up my wine glass, and drank it down like water and said, “Is there any way I can get myself a first class ticket on the Polar Express?