Misfit Christmas 2009, or, In The Land of The Drunken, The Loquacious Man is King

It okay with you if I just lay here on the couch while we talk? I've got a bit of a headache.

Saturday night was Misfit Christmas, an annual event wherein old friends, new friends, and friends of friends come to the house bearing gifts, six packs, trays of food, and the best of attitudes.

I started out, as I always do, with the best of intentions: I was going to take pictures. I was going to chronicle the party.

There would be portraiture, and, should the need arise later, proof.

And I was darn good about it, too. Right up until about the arrival of the 10th guest, whereupon I became distracted by laughter and bright, shiny beer cans.

But what, you ask, is involved in a Misfit Christmas?

Well, there should be a game, and specifically a game that involves gifts. The “you-shakes-the-dice-you-steals-the-presents” game was as raucous as last year; and I walked away with a giant pencil (with its own sharpener), bath salts, and a notebook for my purse. Other people won, among many things, candles; perfume; home-made Christmas-themed fridge magnets; bottles of wine, a number of books, and a rather obscene statue involving two pigs dressed as medical professionals.

Which reminds me. Whoever won the beef heart? It’s still in my fridge. I can’t believe you didn’t take that home.

Then there’s singing. This year’s karaoke was as it usually is: a mixture of genuine talent and good-natured hollering. The interpretive dance, however, was a new addition to the festivities. Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind”, in particular, lent itself to a bending, swaying, pirouetting normally found amongst only snake-handlers and epileptics.

There should be food at Misfit Christmas, as well. We went with clam chowder, but any non-staining food would do. Our guests brought food as well, and if you haven’t tried the Buffalo Chicken dip, then my dear, you simply haven’t lived.

The night ended as it always does: on the smoking porch. We could see our breath, even without the cigarettes, but we were drunk, there were flannels and blankets, and there was the possibility that Dave would drop his pants again. Who could leave?

The taxi came for Vin at 3:30, Charlie and George left at 3:45, and Mary and I grazed on the leftover Christmas cookies until 4:00, whereupon we retired, her to the couch we made up and me to the bed in the other room.



And now you know what makes up a Misfit Christmas. And if you’re going to have one, give me a call. I can bring the dip.