I want to tell three quick stories to let you know how weird my Christmas break is so far.
My mother offered me a free, hand-me-down suit jacket. She got it from her friend from church. She bought it for her son recently, but it was too small. How old was her son, you ask? Fifteen. I officially hate my body. No take-backs.
My father has become obsessed with this Eric Clapton DVD called Crossroads. He apparently bought this after he told me he wanted it for Christmas (good thing I don't buy crap like that (I really hope he likes his Old Navy hoodie...)), which makes me amused because he just. couldn't. wait. until Christmas for it. It's a collection of live performances where Eric Clapton is jammin' with a bunch of other people, like James Taylor or Vince Gill, for example. (Yes, Vince Gill certainly comes to my mind when I think of "jammin'," too.") What was really depressing was that the only performance I saw was "Cocaine," and Eric Clapton was dressed exactly like my dad: a loosely-fitting light blue polo and shorts. No, these weren't shorts necessarily. They resembled capris. Eric Clapton was wearing clam-diggers. Not only did he have adequate storage for all of his painting supplies, but "the fool can play guitar," as my mother told me.
I went to the winery today to buy some wine. My mother's first cousin was working, so he gave me a very extensive wine tasting. The superintendent of the neighboring school system (where certain douchebags attended high school) and his wife were also there, so we all did a big, fat wine tasting together. Which was weird, because their two oldest daughters babysat me when I was a kid. Anyway, after getting a lil' tips' on the "tastes," I bought two bottles of wine (I got the employee discount, which I will never complain about). Then my cousin gave me another glass of wine. And when I finished that, my old boss came downstairs with a bottle of champagne. We all had a glass and a half. And then I had to drive home.
PS. Driving for the first time in six months is really scary, especially when you're used to riding in cabs at a maximum speed of forty miles per hour. Once you get in that car and are going sixty and you've had free wine, it feels like you're in a goddamn space shuttle.