I didn’t have time to create another classic holiday themed, Nitmos related Christmas song for you folks like I did last year. I’m sure you went ahead and did one on your own this year right? Right? Maybe “Nitmos the Runman” or “Nitmos is Runnin’ to Town” or “Silent Nitmos”? The last one would be the most appropriate. Things have been silent around here lately. I won’t make excuses. Let’s just agree that you’re to blame and move on.
I’ve spent the last two weeks in a wine-addled state of semi-consciousness. This time of year, rum is my usual intoxicant of choice. I find it goes with everything – particularly well with black outs. Not sure why but I got a taste for the grapes awhile back and I’ve been dumping Merlots and Cabernets and Chiantis done my gullet like a dehydrated marathoner. If they made wine flavored Gu CHOMPS, I believe I’d eat those too. Mrs. Nitmos made me agree to stop using up our mini Solo cups by pouring a dozen or so an inch full of J. Lohr Cabernet and, every trip into the kitchen, throwing one back down my throat and the other over my head, crinkling both cups, and tossing them onto the floor for the volunteers* to pick up.
Winos are funny. Who didn’t think Grady from Sanford and Son was hilarious? Good Goobley Goo! I remember him rubbing the booze onto his gums with his finger when he could only get a drop from the bottle. What a lush! But, let me tell you, it works. Swab the inside of that nearly dry bottle of Dynamite Merlot with your index finger and brush those last few drops onto your gums. Grady was a wise, wise man.
As the days have turned to weeks and different flavored aromatic bottles have passed by my lips, I have had time to consider my place in life. Literally, I believe I’m one foreclosure notice and used appliance box away from being officially labeled a wino. Instead, I’m just the eccentric dude that never leaves his house except to scuffle across the street in slippers to retrieve the mail. Or run.
Last evening I was about 3 glasses into a Cabernet as I surveyed the wreckage of my living room following another Christmas day: toys still in their packaging, remains of wrapping paper tucked into corners, empty wine bottles turned into pencil holders by the kids. My filly was playing with some iCarly figurines Santa had brought her. Their heads are interchangeable with the bodies so that the girls can wear different outfits. Only, the toy came with four torsos but only two heads. Quickly, my filly turned this into a decapitation/zombie game in which the headless torsos starting coming after the iCarly’s with heads and ripping them from their torsos.
Then, my unfocused eyes moved over to my colt busy playing a PS3 game on the TV. He received the new Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 game. He’s only (nearly) 12 but apparently Santa thought he could handle the mature subject matter. Between vino gulps, I watched as he gleefully shot up an airport full of civilians, throwing grenades, shooting up luggage, pumping a few extra rounds into an already bullet riddled corpse. Later, he called in an air strike on a Burger Town restaurant.
Watching my kids act out violence with their Christmas playthings as I drifted into a alcohol-induced haze, I couldn't have been prouder. This is what fathering is all about.
Santa is funny. In this time of peace and joy and goodwill towards men, he brought my house the gift of unrestrained violence. I’m not a pacifist but neither am I a war hawk. If this was the 60’s, I’d probably be at the flower power demonstrations but I wouldn’t be placing daisies into the barrels of rifles. I’d be there for the party only, listening to music, layering venereal diseases, and verbally condemning The Man, man. Fortunately, one of my strongest character traits is disassociation. While leaning towards peacenikery, I can simultaneously celebrate my colt’s successful destruction of a burger joint with a high five. Watching my filly’s headless figurines haunt the headfull, I’m merely reminded of the guillotine in A Tale of Two Cities. Disassociation: It’s what I do best.
My orgy of Roman-themed grape swilling will be coming to an end soon. Some friends will be coming by to raise some glasses, rat-a-tat a few unfriendlies with a thermal scope assault rifle, and welcome in 2010 on NYE. After New Year’s, I’ll leave the wine behind and return to being the modest, lovable, non-wino Nitmos you all revere.
Until then, Happy New Year! I will drink a toast to each person who comments!**
*Apparently, the “volunteers” aren’t quite as volunteery as I thought. Plus, I’ve never had an actual race volunteer call me a “stupid, drunk, sonofabitch.” As far as I know.
** Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll be drinking whether you comment or not. Frankly, you've all received about a half dozen toasts each by now anyhow.