Christmas Eve at Oates Manor

Nancy, Nostrils, and their brood of li'l translucent children arrived at our house on Christmas Eve, sometime in the late afternoon. They were, of course, traveling in their hilarious toy car, powered by sunflower oil and righteousness, or whatever. All five of them, along with their hammer-headed dog, were wedged inside, as the big sixty (high)horsepower "engine" whirred like a weed wacker while laboring to conquer the slight uphill grade of our driveway.

The shrill noise caused a thousand birds to leave the trees.

After shrugging off their vehicle, Nancy and the see-thrus went inside the house, instantly transforming it from a calm and sedate setting into a crazy-box. At least one of the kids was shrieking and wailing, and the other two were bouncing from room to room, completely wired. Their eyes were wild, their teeth chattering with manic energy. Nancy made a beeline for the kitchen, where she proceeded to remove, I think, every pot and every pan from the cabinets. Here we go.

Following a weird-ass horizontal handshake (European?), Nostrils returned to the driveway, and started to unpack the clown car. Trying to be nice, I went out and asked if he needed any help. The trunk lid was raised, and it was packed-out completely. The crap was crammed in there so tight, it had taken the shape of the lid itself. He gave me a couple of boxes, and said he'd have to do the rest himself, "because it's going to be quite an undertaking." Whatever, dude.

When I went back inside Nancy was on her cell phone, talking to Sunshine. She was spinning a nightmare tale of fussy children and terrible traffic, and I rolled my eyes and had another M&M cookie.

Then I heard Nancy tell her mother that she and Nossy had written alternative lyrics to "Jingle Bells" while they drove, in a global warming theme. She was laughing just full-out as she recalled the exceedingly clever words they'd concocted, and promised to write them down and mail Sunshine a copy. Somehow I doubt Dorothy Parker's ghost is too concerned.

After briefly lamenting the "billion dollar wrapping paper industry," the phone call was ended, and I was already into the booze. Oh, this was going to require a whole lot of medicine....

My wife, Tammy Oates, had been working all day preparing a nice Christmas Eve food spread, and after a couple of stiff drinks we began dragging everything into the dining room, and setting-up for the evening's festivities. I put on my beloved Elvis Christmas CD, and was actually feeling a twinge of the holiday spirit. Pass the beer nuts.

Then the Nancies emerged from their room, all dressed-up. She was sporting some sort of expensive-looking Hillary pantsuit deal, and he was wearing an over-the-top Perry Como sweater which almost made me laugh in his face. The translucents were now in matching Endangered Species of the Hawaiian Islands t-shirts(?!), each with a sticker that read, "Glow In The Dark!" What the shit?!

Nostrils dove into the food like he'd just been released from the Hanoi Hilton, and Nancy started chasing their kids around the house with a quivering hunk of something white and slimy on the end of a fork. The noise, between Nostrildamus's lip-smacking and the kids' sustained wild Indian war whoops, was incredible.

With an exasperated shrug of her shoulders, Nancy said, "Oh, this reminds me of when your kids were young." Yeah, keep telling yourself that, sister, if it makes you feel better. But our boys never acted like the Borneo monkey child Donnie, from the Wild Thornberries. Not even once.

Banana Nostrils cut a wide swath through our holiday spread, and his Adam's apple was nothing but a blur, moving up and down as the swallowing reflex labored to keep up with demand. The translucents made noises like air raid sirens and fax machines, and Nancy prepared her "famous" homemade eggnog in the kitchen, using three dozen(!) raw eggs. When she was finished, it looked like a large bowl of swirling frothy piss, and nobody would go near it. I saw her take a sip of the concoction at one point, and something slimy and stringy slung under her chin. Shit!

I dodged flying food as Nostrils asked me about internet access here at the Oates Manor. He'd brought his laptop with him, and wanted to check his email later. I told him we have a wireless network, and I'd be glad to give him the username and password, so he could tap into it. "You have wiffy?!" he shouted, all excited. Yes, we have wiffy, I assured him.

After the kids were finally put to bed (thank you, God), we had several more adult beverages, and Nancy told Nostrils to get their Christmas CDs from the car. He did as he was told, of course, and it was only a matter of seconds before the sound of African tribal drums could be heard in our living room. Supposedly it was holiday music, but it sounded like we were getting ready for a human sacrifice in here. Festive!

Then we started getting out the "Santa" gifts. Tammy Oates and I dragged box after box from their hiding places, and set them up in a theatrical configuration around the tree. For the first time ever, I looked at the lineup and felt like it was enough. I'm notorious for panicking on Christmas Eve, thinking we didn't do enough for the kids. But this year it felt right.

Nancy went out to their car and returned with a filthy toy truck that was missing a door, a used erector set(?!), and a frightening stuffed animal that may or may not have been a lemur. And the lemur (or whatever) was radically frayed. Nancy and Nostrils are not poor, they just don't "believe in" lots of gifts at Christmas, and no NEW gifts at all. You know, because of political reasons, or somesuch.

As I surveyed everything before turning off the lights, one thing was clear to me: in the morning we'd have a freakin' war on our hands.

And until next time, I am Bill Oates.