‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

Today’s story might take awhile to read, dear readers, but it should be worth your time. Grab a snack, get comfortable, and enjoy the ride.

It was December 24, 2007. As per our traditional Christmas Eve activities, we went over to our friends’ home to gorge ourselves with delicious snacks (including my chocolate dessert) and help the mother wrap gifts (nothing like waiting until the last minute). I suppose I could share the names of the involved parties, but I’d rather conceal their identity to avoid unnecessary and misguided judgment.

Let’s take a quick break in the story. I need to explain something about my husband. Although he was quite the drinker in high school and the two years following, he has not been that way since. It would be a lie to say he “never” drank, but we’re talking less than 12 beers per year. So, his alcohol tolerance was likely equivalent to a 90-lb high school girl by the time our story takes place. Carry on, wayward sons…

So, we were at our dear friends’ home on Christmas Eve. Their children (all in high school or college) were there, as were our kids (Taylor 10, Nathan 5, and Noah 5 months). Christmas Eve always includes a special treat for the adults: frangelico alexanders. While technically an alcoholic drink, it’s more like dessert in a glass. In case you’re unfamiliar, it tastes like a milkshake with a bit of a kick. It would be difficult to find a buzz in that drink, especially the way the mother made them. This was good for me, because alcohol doesn’t do so good with my tummy.

While the mother and I were busy wrapping gifts, Andy thought it would be helpful and appreciated if he made the second batch of frangelico alexanders. But our hands were busy and his efforts went unnoticed, so he may have accidentally consumed the entire second batch by himself. Having never made them before, he may have accidentally added too much alcohol. While these drinks don’t usually give one a buzz, the second “Andy” batch apparently did. Oh dear.

Andy took it upon himself to make batch 3, which most definitely had more alcohol in it than is even remotely reasonable. You see, when one is already operating under the influence, one shot glass of frangelico quickly becomes several hearty shakes directly from the bottle. Most of batch 3 made its way to Andy’s belly, as well. This would not be classified as a good thing.

Midnight had arrived and we departed on the 30-minute drive home. I knew Andy was drunk at this point, so obviously I drove home. I made him carry the casserole dish with what was left of the chocolate dessert in his lap for safe keeping. It was cold and our three children were sleepy, so I blasted the heat.

About 20 minutes into the drive, Andy declared [through slurred speech] that the van was “hot as hell” and I needed to open the windows. I said something like, “Our babies are asleep and it’s freezing outside. I’m not opening the windows!”

The next thing I heard was something to the effect of “Pull over!” Before my brain could even process his request, it was too late. Andy was violently spewing projectile vomit out the window. But wait! The window wasn’t actually open. Oh snap. With his forehead pressed against the window, he continued vomiting. The puke, which had a very sweet frangelico-esque aroma, slid down the window. It went over the door and inside the door. It filled the casserole holding the leftover dessert. It covered the seatbelt. It covered his corduroy jacket. It covered his shoes. During this 5-second puke explosion, I carefully pulled over on the side of the highway.

Being covered in vomit, he was angry at this point. He made some sorry excuse about how if I had pulled over when he asked, the upchuck festivities could have been avoided. He promised he was done puking and demanded I bring him home immediately. I opened his window, partly to give the inevitable vomit an escape hatch, but mostly to help with the smell.

He lied. He was not done puking. More projectile vomit sprayed from between his clenched teeth. The window being open actually made things worse. The wind caused the puke to streak through the inside of the van, coating the interior of all the windows on that side. God help me.

When we pulled into our driveway, I brought the kids inside and put them to bed while Andy decorated our landscaping with more puke. The Christmas lights wrapped around our palm trees added nicely to the ambiance, casting a warm glow on the pink-ish slime that now covered the plants not unlike a fresh coat of snow.

To say I was angry would be like saying Mount Everest is a cute little hill. I charged outside, cleaning supplies in hand. I screamed obscenities at him, cried, and demanded he detail my van before coming inside. He told me that was ridiculous and he was going to bed. I told him we had to leave early the next morning for his sister’s house and I absolutely would not be bringing our children in a van covered in his vomit. About that time, a man flew down our street in a clunker, hollering “Feliz Navidad, mother f-_____!” out the window. A cop was speeding behind him. Classy situation altogether, wouldn’t you say? Feliz Navidad, indeed.

I went inside and Andy cleaned my van. As drunk as he was, he did a pretty good job… with one exception.

The next morning, Andy couldn’t move off the couch. So, on Christmas Day, I brought our three children to his sister’s house to celebrate Christmas without Daddy. Embarrassing, no? What’s that, you ask? Oh, about the exception to his cleaning success? The icing on the cake was when I turned on the heat in the van Christmas morning. It took about one minute to realize puke had found its way into the air vents. Dear God. I shudder at the memories.

It was the worst Christmas of my life. It took over a year before I could laugh about it. Thankfully, our marriage survived.