I know I have been a slack arse blogging, but if having a very energetic 9-and-a-half month old and being four months pregnant isn't a great excuse, I don't know what is.
Tonight, my family will be celebrating a family tradition I really look forward to every year - Midnight Mass. Just thinking about going tonight, however, makes me think back to a Christmas Eve when I was 14 and a very cheap drunk, (come to think of it, I still am a cheap drunk). Anyhow, let me set the scene.
Dad was working the night shift, mum was joining the yearly street Christmas get together before mass, our house was open to all the street's kids - from a mix of cultures and creeds - one of which was my best friend, a Muslim girl I grew up with who lived a few doors down.
Anyway, my eldest sister, who was 20 at the time, had a car and a life, and thought Midnight Mass was boring, but would go out and come back in time. My 16 year old brooding sister - who didn't think it was fair she had to stay home and watch me - thought it would be fun to get stuck into the stash of Tia Maria my mum always had and have some fun. Even to this day, the details are a little sketchy, but here are a few things that have been burned into my memory.
1) Standing at the kitchen sink throwing handfuls at water at kids yelling. ``Is anyone thirsty?''
2) Running through Naremburn with my sister and friend in tow, pounding on the local priest's presbytery door at 10pm asking, ``What time is Midnight Mass''? (In my drunkenness, I really thought this was a legitimate question)
3) Getting dressed to go to church and falling into the wardrobe, with my Muslim friend, flashing my pre-pubescent body and froggy-undies.
Anyway, when my mum got home at 11.45pm, she wasn't impressed. She quizzed my sister - who kept bitch-slapping me to stand up straight - what was wrong with me. Anyway, we made it out the door and walked/stumbled the 500 metres to church. My mum has always sat in the front pew at church and tonight was no exception. By this stage, church was packed. As we entered, all eyes were on us, especially as I was uncontrollably giggling. As we took our places, the aforementioned priest spyed us and gave us the WORST greasy - it was more like a death stare. I vaguely remember not being able to stand and people snickering all around me. As I sat down for the 15th time in 5 minutes, my mum yanked me by the arm and marched me to the side door, expelling me from the sacred mass. Slamming the door behind her, I sat down on the cold stone steps and then proceeded to hurl my guts. Vomit was all over the church steps! I could still hear the carolers inside, but through the haze, I saw an apparition. As it grew closer, I realised it was just my big sister. She just took one look at me, bailed me into her 1976 Toyota Celica and drove me home.
The next morning I suffered my first hangover. Ofcourse, my mum was up banging pots and pans and had the stereo blasting Christmas tunes from 5.30am. I realised that this was my punishment. Not a word was ever spoken about that night - even to this day. She never told dad, who I was scared shitless would withhold my new stack hat. But that day, my pounding head was shown no pity. I guess I deserved it.
I'm really looking forward to this Christmas as it is my baby's first one. I just hope she doesn't throw up on the church choir tonight!
Best wishes to all - and please drive safely.
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