I’ve never had any patience for holiday drunks. Drinkers were a part of my growing up. I suppose they were functioning alcoholics, but no one ever called them that. Being around these souses, I learned, by the time I grew up, to avoid people with certain traits that would lead to drunkenness. My patience with the self-pitying drunk has been non-existent. What I especially had no time for was the drunk who started on that long holiday spiral downward.

I couldn’t understand what it was about the holidays that caused people to drop to the bottom of a bottle and not crawl out until after the New Year. After all, didn’t we all have dysfunctional families? Why the holiday bender?

Now, however, I am beginning to understand this yearly phenom a little better. As a matter of fact the thought of settling down to the holiday dinner with my nearest and dearest shakes me to the core and I want to reach for the gin bottle.

It isn’t the pressure of the actual meal. I’ve learned how to do any holiday meal with the least amount of effort possible. It isn’t fear of displeasure with my cooking. My turkey stuffing is famous near and far, and when my kids aren’t around I can put in all the nuts I want. My cranberry sauce is gone before the meal is over no matter how much I make. It isn’t the company. I can invite whom I want these days; I have no “required” guests anymore.

No, it’s the ghosts of holidays past that make that gin look like a wonderful palliative. When the holidays come ‘round, I start to see the ghosts of holidays past in all their glory. These are the people that made all holiday meals miserable for me when I was growing up. How these spirits could follow me all the way to our wee cottage in Santa Tourista is beyond me, but they show up at the most inconvenient times.

Take my aunties Sookie and Fritzie . . . please. They could cast a pall over the miracle of the fishes and the loaves (”This is dreck!*” “He knows I don’t like fish!” “This loaf isn’t fresh.” “Miracle, schmiracle, I know he had these shipped in from Galilee.”). Sookie and Fritzie, however, could be counted on to be at any gathering where there was food. And even with their ’schrying’**, they were ‘fressers’*** par excellence.

Whenever Sookie came to my house, she would immediately go to the fridge. There she would browse and fress to her heart’s content. I actually thought of getting some that fake food like they have in restaurant windows and putting it in the fridge just so I could see the look on her face when she bit into it. I even priced it, but it was too expensive.

Fritzie had another tactic. She would always want to get something tangible from me. She wasn’t satisfied with food; she wanted ‘stuff.’ One time I bought a painting. When I got home with it, Fritzie was here. She saw the painting and started in on me. Guilt was poured on me with a giant ladle. “Oh, I would love to have that painting!” “It would make me so happy.” You could make your old ‘taunta’**** happy.” I gave her the painting.

So, when the holidays come ‘round, the spirits of miserable holidays past start to pop up. They’re all dead now. So, all they can bother me with is a pale version of their fressing gonnif schnorrer*****ways. But, they’re there. As I chop the dried fruit for my stuffing, I can sense them leaning over me. “You going to use all that?” “You’re not going to put garlic in that, are you?” “Are you sure that you’ve cooked that turkey long enough?” “Haven’t you polished the silver yet?” And so on.

I used to be afraid of dying in front of them for fear they’d take the gold out of my teeth (I actually told them that. It didn’t go over well.). Good company helps more than alcohol. It dulls the voices. It calms me down. It helps me to sleep. It gives me the courage to ignore the spirits. Go stick your head in the oven Sookie, and Fritzie get your mitts off my stuff.

New Year’s can’t come too soon.

*crap
**complainig loudly
***big eaters (piggies)
****aunt
*****big eating, thieving, borrowing