Small Town Ho-Hos (and a Hangover)

The Small Town is getting all Rockwellian. It's so scarily charming: the old houses lit up and sparkly from the inside out, the wreaths on every lamp post, and tomorrow Santa and the Mrs will come in on the Lobster Boat. If I had ear muffs and a muffler, I would don them. Maybe throw some white skates around my neck. 

Last night was the kick off: wine and wine and wine and some rum punch in an historic building crammed with homemade gingerbread houses. There were older gentlemen in tweed, ladies in Burberry, and me in my nicest jeans. There was cheer and good tidings and naturally, the whole thing rolled into a bender at a Small Town bar even though me and my neighbor pinky swore we wouldn't. Pinky swearing never works. Not with all the Rockwelliness and the wine. And the beer. And the... well, yeah, the beer. 

Here's the thing about Small Towns and Christmas time: it's one long credit card fueled drunk until January 2. It's gets dark and cold at like what? 3:00pm? so you gotta get things twinkly and dressed up in pine swag and ogle candy houses that look better than the ones you live in. You gotta forget your pinky swearing and stroll over to the pub, belly up with your neighbors and all your new friends, tell your secrets and some jokes and take the long way home.*

*Not because you meant to, but because you were too busy chatting and hahaha-ing to realize how far out of the way you had walked. 

Charity abounds! Like the guy buying all the drinks at the bar, and the very nice anonymous person who pulled all the plastic, newspaper stuffed ghosts off my tree (and left them on my doorstep). I appreciate it all. Actually, I appreciate the drinks more than the passive aggressive "it's christmas Picket! the ghosts gotta go" but hey, whatever. It's Christmas time and I got love in my heart and probably more booze coursing through my veins than blood. 

Tomorrow the tree comes in and the lights go on and it will be a Christmas miracle when my head stops pounding.