So. We packed, and it sucked. I hate packing, and Brian did most of it. The POD truck came and carted our stuff away on December 22 (and it’s still not in CA!) and we were left to our lonesomes in our drafty, creaky, dusty apartment, without carpets or kitchen tables or whatever to muffle the sound of the nutjob upstairs.
We went back to our respective parental households on Christmas Eve, which was my last day of work (ttyl!). After an epic battle royale to get The Snuggler into her duffle bag, we headed back to Lowell/Tewksbury and moped around until it was time to party righteously. We went to the usual Kathy/Greg Open House situation in Natick, where everyone told me how expensive California is, and where I got a lot of Twilight discussion out of my system (Team Jacob! All the way!). We scooted back to Lowell and made an appearance at the Schermerhorn’s par-tay where the unthinkable happened. Yes. I drank a bottle of champagne.
Apparently an amount of Veuve Cliquot turns me into a person called The Warrior. I don’t remember very clearly what it was about the Schermerhorn household that made me so warlike, but I THINK either Kyle or Nick dubbed me The Warrior and that was that, but again, my memory is a little foggy, so it could’ve been anyone. The Warrior also came out on Christmas day, because Brian’s family…well…they like to party. And I absolutely cannot withstand peer pressure when it comes from people my parents’ age. I guess that’s not really “peer pressure” but you know what I mean.
We were out pretty late that night, and I stumbled to bed, visions of sugarplums dancing in my spinning head.
Part 2: Christmas Day, the Warrior Returns.