Hot Toddy, Anyone?

I’m up to more antics again on Christmas day. I’m a total clown when I’m with my family and today is no exception. I’ve been on a tea-drinking binge recently. Can’t get enough of the stuff, apparently (it is loaded with caffeine, though - I must be addicted!).

Pops (my grandpa), I swear, has been trying to get me drunk all weekend. That’s what I get for having a professional gambler as my grandpa, I guess. (Any y’all interested in lessons? He’s been at it for 40 years and still brings home the bacon – horse racing and pro football are what he excels at, though.)

He’s a wine drinker – nothing but Beringer White Zinfandel for him! (Please! No comments on his choice of wine. Stuff tastes like Kool-Aid to me.) He fed me 3 glasses on Friday when we went out for dinner.

“Pops, no more! I can’t take it – I’m a lightweight!”

So, today, I’m drinking my tea and he offers me some more wine.

“No thanks, Pops.”
“You need something.”
“How about something to spike my tea? Got any whisky?”
“There’s that bottle of Canadian Club in the closet.”
“You mean the 3-foot tall bottle on the swinging stand you brought back from Niagara Falls in 1980?”
“Yeah, that’s the stuff.”

I pull it out of the closet and my dad and my grammy look at me like I’m insane.

My dad tells me, “Don’t drink that. That stuff will kill you. You know how old that is?”

I laugh and pour myself a shot. Guess I like taking risks.

I also like the flavor of my hot toddy. Yum! Another please! So, I’m sitting at the dinner table with the family, having Christmas dinner with my hot toddy on a coaster while everyone else is drinking either wine or apple juice (ooh, a rebel! aren’t I?). Well, apparently, I’m laughing a little too loudly at my uncle’s tired jokes (which I happen to love) about how drinking whisky puts hair on your chest.

I tell my uncle, “I’m wearing a turtleneck. I’m not inspecting myself now to see if I’ve got hair on my chest.”
My cousin, A, replies, “You don’t have to have it on your chest. Look at my dad – his hair has started growing on his neck.”

I pull the collar of my turtleneck down, so my family can inspect my neck. Hairless.

My grammy is unimpressed, “W, no more for you! Someone take her mug away from her!”
“Grams – too late! My mug is empty. See?”

I tilt my mug and show the table that the damage is done. Again, I’m a happy camper.

A says, “Well, she isn’t driving home tonight, so she can have as much as she wants.”

Good philosophy, A! I’m glad I can count on you for support!

BTW, I’m still alive, so I guess drinking 25-year old whisky didn’t kill me.