So This Is Christmas 12/02/2007
 ecember 19, 2003Traveling 8:25 a.m. Wake up with the stale taste of regret in my mouth. This morning's regret tastes of an unfortunate mixture of cigarettes, Jäger, tooth fuzz, and pepperoni pizza. A quick look to my right assuages my fear of a potential double regret sleeping next to me. Thankfully, crumpled jeans and dirty underwear are my only other bedfellows. There's a throbbing in my head and a beeping from my phone. My cell phone shows three voice messages from my mom, and I already know what they say. They say “Lizzie, I am sure you once again felt invincible against the effects of alcohol and credit card debt last night and managed to fund a drinking frenzy for you and your friends from 5 p.m. until 4 a.m. I have very little sympathy for your hungover, sleep-deprived state, which is why I am calling you at this ungodly hour in the morning. Christmas is in five days, and you have a plane to catch this afternoon. We have activities planned for this evening, so wake your sorry ass up, wash your shame away, pack your dirty clothes, and get home.” 8:30 a.m. – 4:00 p.m. Barrage of mother-daughter phone calls ensues. Accusation and exasperation parry. Mom accuses me of not laundering my clothes, packing, dry cleaning, Christmas shopping, working on graduate school applications, sobering up, and ordering a cab for the airport. I become exasperated because though all of these insinuations are true, I don't really want to hear them while unshowered, underwearless, in my skank top from the night before, and playing my best run of FreeCell ever. Manage to make the flight. Home 4:30 p.m. The smell of garlic simmering in oil greets me at the door with the promise of meatballs, marinara, lasagna, sausage bread, and five pounds of additional fat strapped to my ass. Heaven. 5:15 p.m. Dad arrives home early from the office and insists upon a happy hour Scotch with his daughter. Ugh. Dad likes to use my questionable sobriety as an excuse to stock the liquor cabinet, hold extended happy hours each night, and then blame the depletion of the booze on me. That works for me since I can't be alcoholic and a student at the same time. They're mutually exclusive terms. 6:15 p.m. Andrew arrives home from wrestling, wearing his varsity jacket and seemingly little else. Mom suspiciously asks what he is wearing under his jacket. Andrew flexes, popping the snaps of his letterman jacket open to reveal his ripped, cleanly shaven bare chest. He proceeds to flex in the kitchen to my disgust for the next 20 minutes. Thankfully, a sandwich and pasta divert his attention, albeit ever so briefly, from his pecs, tris, and lats. 6:30 p.m. Kai arrives home from a friend's house. She is fully inculcated by sixth-grade culture, which involves protocols and social interactions wholly alien from my own. I feign interest in her ceaseless chatter about the twisted, cruel world of 12-year-old passions, romance, and thwarted dreams. 6:45 p.m. Lock myself in my room to play Snood in brain-numbing, peaceful solitude. 7:00 p.m. Andrew enters to discuss his 18-year-old epiphany on sexual relationships. 1. Girlfriends are worthless, considering the fact that you can pretty much get on any chick you want. 2. Girls can be “just friends.”* * He exemplifies this “just friends” point by relating an anecdote about his “just friend” Samantha. Samantha is his ex-girlfriend from sophomore year. They became reacquainted at her party three weeks prior, at which time he “got on her.” Because nothing more has occurred, he has decided that they must be platonic friends. Decorating 7:30 p.m. My desire to adopt a sad, lonely Charlie Brown tree this year is trumped by my brother and dad, who decide that we purchase a Christmas tree they call “the Bull.” The Bull is a Christmas tree manifestation of the manliness that inflates the egos of that pair. True to form, Andrew switches the tags so that instead of $ 65 our tree only costs $ 45. Mom feels bad for the “poor, white, trailer-park Wisconsin boy” who was duped into selling it at that price and “tips” him $ 20. 8:00 p.m. Andrew leaves to watch some show called One Tree Hill with other wrestlers and football players. What females. When they pick him up, they say, "So, you're Andrew's sister." While popping the cork on the next happy hour bottle, I retort, "You mean that Andrew is my brother." Only blank stares in return. I feel tired. 9:00 p.m. Drink the bottle of wine with Dad as we watch back-to-back episodes of Dinosaurs on the Discovery Channel. Did you know that the sauropod has the smallest brain-to-body mass ratio? True. With its nearly 40-foot body weighing over 15,000 pounds, the sauropod had a brain only the size of a banana. Amazing. After a few “quality kills” by the raptors, Dad starts snoring. 10:00 p.m. Run to Jewel to buy carpet cleaner because my dog decided that a tree in the warm house is a much better alternative to a tree in the cold outdoors. While at Jewel I run into my brother and his friends buying a case of Icehouse. Apparently “watching One Tree Hill” is high school jock code for “illegally purchasing alcohol.” Andrew explains to me that he's done some research and he has discovered that Icehouse has the highest alcohol content of beers available in cases. He invites me along on their “winter warmer” event during which they drive around the neighborhood drinking beer and either stealing Christmas lawn ornaments or simply rearranging the nativity statues into sinful positions. While tempted, I decline this opportunity to serve jail time in my hometown. 10:30 p.m. Clean the dog pee off the carpet, throw a load of crumpled jeans and dirty underwear into the wash, and call it a night. It's good to be home for the holidays. |  Lizzie Maratea
Lizzie Maratea is a socially awkward extrovert prone to inappropriate outbursts. Because she cannot explain her job in five words or less, she usually lies. Her therapist suggested writing as means to deal with her tactless mannerisms and proclivity to bend the truth. Lizzie attended Cornell University and majored in history with no intention of teaching, working as a museum curator, or attending law school. With no job prospect in sight, she decided to live in London, where she managed to sneak in a master’s in media and communication from the London School of Economics. She has yet to utilize her education, settling instead for mediocrity in order to pull in a steady paycheck. Lizzie currently finds herself at home in Chicago, Illinois. Literally, at home. ______________________ lizziemaratea@ ______________________ Archives______________________  |
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