time: 11:30 am
location: My apartment
situation: I was supposed to be at my mother’s at 10:00

ring.ring.ring

Mother: “Hello?”
Me: “Mom! I’m sorry I’m late. I just woke up. I’ll be right out.
Mother: “Are you sure you’re all right to drive?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Mother: “Well, I’m assuming you’re hung over.”
Me: (briefly considering lying) “I’m fine to drive.”

It’s amazing how many old friends you’ll run into on Christmas Eve when there is only one bar open in midtown. I burned through a entire week’s bar budget in one night.

I’d like to offer a parenting of the year award to the geniuses who gave their seven year old son a miniature motorcycle, letting him drive down White Avenue unsupervised with his five year old helmetless sister riding bitch, and yet neglecting to teach him how to RIDE A BICYCLE! Brilliant!

When I was seven, I asked my father if I could have motorcycle. He said no. I then asked if I could have a motorcycle when I turned sixteen. He said no. Then I asked if I could have a motorcycle when I moved out of the house. He said no. Finally, I asked him if I could have a motorcycle after he died. He said no.

So here I am, only one year younger than Jesus when they whacked ‘em, and I’M STILL not allowed to own a motorcycle. But kudos to you, Genius Parents, for not being all uptight about the small stuff.

Every Christmas Eve, my employer is generous enough to reward me for my hard work by endowing me with a check for eighty-one dollars. Sorry for being a big fat ingrate, but isn’t that a little insulting?

Oh well, at least it almost paid my bar tab.