I haven't looked at her sober enough.
Yesterday, in the midst of a dark little orgy known as Mige's birthday, I blacked out and hardly remember a solitary event save for arriving in style with chauffeur and several hired hands. The heavy drinking, abuse of guests, tongue to birthday boy's throat, were all in service of a good annual celebration.
In the name of spending Christmas with the Ricci's, I'm taking time off from my nine to five and seven to nine. How delightful, "meeting the parents." Should I be scared, excited or plain drunk upon arrival? A coin toss: if the plane remains turbulence free, I will stay sober. If not, bottoms up. One can only hope for mid-flight entertainment courtesy of willful underage girls, perfect.
Let's all give a round of heady applause for familial tensions. For I don't have to worry myself with appeasing an over-protective father. My being gentlemanly, warm, kind and an acceptable friend for his daughter will not be an issue. But you never know, a soft family side could be what the doctor ordered to end my whoredom. Or not.
The mother: now, if she's anything how I'd expect from the mild things I've already been told, then I expect wooden spoon in hand, mad hair, fussing over new people and friends arriving. I have nothing against that, but I can't see myself doing a complete turnover. From blood-sucking Finnish sex deity to intolerably nice houseguest… And complete with smile! Especially after I have vivid imaginations of my introduction into the household.
"And what is your name, sir?"
"Jyrki."
"…is there a last name to go with that?"
"Sixty Nine."
This nightmare of Christmas materialized will send her convulsing to the floor with a ghastly look of horror, I'm quite sure of it. Me at Christmas with an Italian family will no doubt cause discomfort and a fervent desire to attend midnight mass. Images of Saturday Night Fever and John Travolta spring to mind. Or the Ben Stiller film where everything goes wrong. And for pity's sake, let us not forget the Jew.
Then there's her brother and sister - both older than Christina. This presents the "I'm protective of my little sister" routine. Let's just hope I don't end up sleeping on a cot at the foot of her parents' bed. Perhaps I'll conveniently make frequent late night visits to the bathroom. Even the darkest must have a silver lining.
Drink up little puppet, do your worst. My New Year will be better than yours.
In the name of spending Christmas with the Ricci's, I'm taking time off from my nine to five and seven to nine. How delightful, "meeting the parents." Should I be scared, excited or plain drunk upon arrival? A coin toss: if the plane remains turbulence free, I will stay sober. If not, bottoms up. One can only hope for mid-flight entertainment courtesy of willful underage girls, perfect.
Let's all give a round of heady applause for familial tensions. For I don't have to worry myself with appeasing an over-protective father. My being gentlemanly, warm, kind and an acceptable friend for his daughter will not be an issue. But you never know, a soft family side could be what the doctor ordered to end my whoredom. Or not.
The mother: now, if she's anything how I'd expect from the mild things I've already been told, then I expect wooden spoon in hand, mad hair, fussing over new people and friends arriving. I have nothing against that, but I can't see myself doing a complete turnover. From blood-sucking Finnish sex deity to intolerably nice houseguest… And complete with smile! Especially after I have vivid imaginations of my introduction into the household.
"And what is your name, sir?"
"Jyrki."
"…is there a last name to go with that?"
"Sixty Nine."
This nightmare of Christmas materialized will send her convulsing to the floor with a ghastly look of horror, I'm quite sure of it. Me at Christmas with an Italian family will no doubt cause discomfort and a fervent desire to attend midnight mass. Images of Saturday Night Fever and John Travolta spring to mind. Or the Ben Stiller film where everything goes wrong. And for pity's sake, let us not forget the Jew.
Then there's her brother and sister - both older than Christina. This presents the "I'm protective of my little sister" routine. Let's just hope I don't end up sleeping on a cot at the foot of her parents' bed. Perhaps I'll conveniently make frequent late night visits to the bathroom. Even the darkest must have a silver lining.
Drink up little puppet, do your worst. My New Year will be better than yours.