I should clean the aquarium, rearrange the basement, reduce my pile of personal paperwork, perform maintenance on the computer, do laundry, wash the car. I usually burn off my remaining "use it or lose it" vacation time during this period, which means I don't have a set schedule to follow, which creates it's own brand of anxiety. This week between Xmas and the new year always seems topsy-turvy. I'd rather see and hear Susan Boyle than some pop tart lip-syncing while dressed like a Vegas hooker and hanging umop-episdn." Music and singing seemed less important to the proceedings than flash and spectacle. "There were a lot of people dressed as demireps and acting like corybants on the Grammy Awards that year. And Captain Brinkerhoff was uncharacteristically silent for the duration of the feast. His mother and sister began to giggle, nervously at first, then uncontrollably. His diastolic boisterousness had the intended effect. "Look it uuuupppp!" he bellowed, pounding the table with what he intended to be a raffish drub. "What? What kind of fish is that?" Captain Brinkerhoff demanded. Spencer was sure he had sounded like an adenoidal landlubber engaging in undignified ebullition to everyone at the table. His father halted in mid sentence and glared menacingly. They were words he had been working on for the new edition of the dictionary, and they had simply come to him. "I dig a sorrel pintaloosa!" he suddenly shouted, though he wasn't sure why. Spencer, who fancied himself the Brinkerhoff's closest approximation to an upscale cutup, decided he'd had enough of his father's complaints about the fluctuating price of flounder. His long-suffering mother, Philida, simply stared into the tureen of mashed potatoes. Spencer's comely sister, Adelia, exhibited her usual luminescent lassitude, with her chin planted firmly on her palm. His father was a fishing boat captain and had no respect at all for Spencer's profession - that of dictionary editor.Īs the family sat down to a repast of brazed sailfish and checkered chitlings, the patriarch began to deliver his traditional rodomontade, which, as usual, was filled with imbecilic windiness. Young Spencer, the black sheep of the family, was not looking forward to it. It was time for another holiday dinner at the Brinkerhoff manse.
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