How I Ruined Christmas

I�ve always been uncomfortable around people with money. When I was 5 years old, my mother went back to work as a receptionist for some of the doctors in town. She hated them because they were arrogant and mean and demeaning. She�d come home crying frequently because of the way they treated her, and I hated them for it, too. I usually forgot the most important quality they shared and focused on the fact that they were the richest people in town. Us poor people used to entertain ourselves by going for aimless drives up the hill to the fancy part of town and looking at their big houses and fancy cars until our jealousy and resentment was satiated. By the time I met SP, the connection between rich and evil was well established in me, yet another unique challenge I�ve managed to bring to our relationship.

SP grew up in a home those doctors could not have afforded even if they agreed to all live together and split the rent, like some fraternity for 50 year old assholes, each one convinced that he�s playing god right here on Earth. Every time we pull up to his parent�s house, I�m floored. I�m tempted to call it an estate, even though I don�t know what separates a home from an estate, the name seems to be appropriate none the less. I see the wrought iron fencing and the statues lining the circle as we drive up to the three Mercedes in the garage, and I feel that tinge of resentment from my childhood. Each time we walk in the front door, I�m convinced that I�ll find people inside who will sneer at my $12 Supercuts hair and my Wal-Mart sneakers, and they�ll send me away until I can learn to enunciate properly. It scares me, and sometimes leads to me acting � well, stupid.

Instead, I find these incredibly down to earth imposters roaming around the house, who hug and kiss me every time I walk in the door. Their affinity for their gay son�s lover is almost spooky, especially considering that�s me. Not being the most cultured or interesting person on the planet, I usually go over to the estate and sit amongst hundreds of priceless works of art and laugh at farts or talk about how I could calculate the most likely scenario for their death if they applied for life insurance. They gather together to talk about current or historical events, great literature and musicians or poets, and my eyes glaze over. I usually wait out the �adult� conversation by telling myself �there once was a girl from Nantucket� limericks in my head and giggling to myself. If my gay son brought someone home who sat there farting and giggling at nothing all the time, I probably wouldn�t be nearly as friendly and encouraging as they have been.

This holiday, however, I think I may have finally managed to taint their rose-colored view of me. We started drinking wine Christmas eve night, and by �we� I mean �I�. I managed to down about two bottles before the night was over, watching the look of concern growing on their faces and forgetting that I couldn�t sleep it off the next day because we had to get up and open presents in the morning. As soon as I woke up, I knew something was wrong. I�d only slept a few hours, and I was still drunk. Knowing that�s not a good sign of my near future, I briefly contemplated starting in on a new bottle of wine and prolonging the hang over until I wasn�t in someone else�s house. Instead, I let the inevitable headache and queasiness overcome me, and I reported downstairs for holiday cheer. I sat through breakfast in their elegant kitchen, slowly sipping water and feeling my face turn green every time someone offered me bacon. We moved to the foyer inside the grand entrance and gathered around the tree to open presents, and I started carefully staking out the location of the bathrooms and the virtues associated with each. This one is closest, that one is soundproof, that one even Martha Stewart would faint at the splendor of�

As I opened each present, I felt a rumble in my stomach. I was on my very last present, a box containing three exquisitely hand painted baking dishes and bowls, when I felt the big rumble. The one that makes you weak in the knees and produces instant sweat at your brow. I held the beautiful bowl in my hands and wondered if SP�s parents would be offended if I yacked into it, and, deciding that was likely, I rapidly excused myself to go to the bathroom. And of course, like an idiot, I selected the one furthest away despite the impending emergency. I calmly walked out of the foyer and through the TV sitting room. When I turned the corner and entered the kitchen I knew I was out of their sights. I eyed the sink briefly and considered, but burst into a full sprint towards the bathroom instead. I rounded the kitchen table, stopped short of knocking over the dining room table already set with china and crystal, passed by the silk couches in the living room and saw the etched glass doors to the back yard. Even though the bathroom was in sight, I considered once again the closer option of the bushes outside, but I made the tougher choice to leap past an elegant fountain to the bathroom. I made it, barely able to slam the door behind me before I fell to my knees on the marble floor and paid my debts to alcoholism.

When I re-emerged to the family, I was horrified at what they must be thinking about me. I expected to walk in and see fingers pointed at me and heads slowly shaking in disgust. Luckily, they were each engrossed in another gift they�d received, as they�d coincidentally each opened a leather bound volume of classic literature, and I thanked the god of drunken losers for letting me throw up in a house of unspeakable beauty and not be discovered. I sat down next to my pile of opened presents, and looked over at SP, his eyes sparkling like a kid unwrapping his first train set. The gifts were beautiful, each of them well thought-out and meaningful. Although I felt myself missing my family as they opened their gifts half a country away, I felt thankful to be included in this Christmas so far from home, surrounded by love I haven�t felt since leaving Colorado.

I�m still embarrassed and humiliated by what I did. It was an accident, but I should know better by now, for god�s sake. If I�ve learned one thing this Christmas it�s that marble hurts your knees. A lot. And emerging from a bathroom smelling like filth and looking like hell as you massage your swollen knees on Christmas morning tends to hurt your image with the in-laws, no matter how engrossed they are in the splendor of their gifts.

But at least I�ve learned my lesson. Next year I�m wearing kneepads.

That or I could stop drinking enough alcohol to drown an elephant... finally, a New Year�s resolution I might actually be able to live up to.