Greetings, denizens of the SJ Hotel! Your humble humorist, Chris Seaton, is back to sling a tale of familial chaos, and this week we’re trudging north to the soggy hills of Vermont for my father-in-law’s 80th birthday. Buckle up, because this trip was less “Norman Rockwell” and more “Hunter S. Thompson with a side of steak tips.”

So, I fled the blessed warmth of Knoxville for the Green Mountain State, where the air smells like damp flannel and socialism. My father-in-law, a man who’s outlived half his high school class and still thinks he can arm-wrestle a moose, decided his 80th warranted a shindig. The plan? Everyone at the family home and enough steak tips to choke a bear. Sounds wholesome, right? Spoiler: it wasn’t.

We rolled into Vermont under a sky that looked like it was auditioning for a biblical flood. Rain didn’t just fall; it assaulted us, turning dirt roads into soup and my sneakers into sponges. By the time we reached the cabin, I was wetter than a Vol fan’s face after a loss to Alabama. But the family was already there, unpacked, and—most critically—knee-deep in booze. I’m talking bottles of wine, cases of craft beer, and some unholy maple-flavored vodka that tasted like a distillery’s cry for help. My father-in-law, grinning like a kid who just swiped a cookie, was holding court with a glass of something amber and a story about the time he “almost” fought a bobcat in ’72.

Now, let’s talk steak tips. These weren’t your sad, stringy supermarket cuts. No, these were hunks of marinated glory, grilled to a perfect medium-rare by my brother-in-law, who wielded tongs like a samurai. We feasted like Vikings, piling plates with tips, mashed potatoes, and some token green beans nobody touched. The rain kept pounding the tin roof, but inside, it was warm, loud, and increasingly sloppy. My father-in-law, three whiskeys deep, started challenging everyone to arm-wrestle. My nine-year-old son almost took him up on it before my wife vetoed that disaster.

Here’s where things went sideways. Vermont, for all its charm, has a way of making you forget how much you’ve drank. Maybe it’s the rain, or the cabin fever, or the fact that every aunt and cousin keeps refilling your glass. By 10 p.m., we’d polished off enough liquor to stock a speakeasy. My sister-in-law was singing Dolly Parton off-key, my father-in-law was retelling the bobcat story with new, implausible details, and I was trying to explain to my mother-in-law why “roll tide” isn’t a personality trait. Meanwhile, the rain turned the yard into a swamp, and someone—nobody’s fessed up—slipped and faceplanted in the mud while trying to “check on the grill.”

By midnight, the party was a glorious mess. Steak tips were gone, replaced by a questionable cheese platter and arguments over who’d win in a fight: a bear or a moose. My father-in-law, now four whiskeys deep and wearing a party hat like a crown, declared himself “too young to be 80” and tried to dance with my mother-in-law, who was sober enough to dodge. I, less sober, ended up outside in the rain, helping my brother-in-law drag a cooler back to the porch while we debated whether Vermont’s legal weed was worth the hype. (Spoiler: we didn’t test the theory.)

Morning came like a punishment. The rain hadn’t quit, the cabin smelled like a distillery floor, and my head felt like it’d been used as a pinata. My father-in-law, somehow spry as a spring chicken, was already up, frying bacon and demanding we all go hiking. Hiking! In the mud! With hangovers! I muttered something about needing to “check my email” and hid in the bathroom with a coffee. The family, bless their masochistic hearts, actually went, returning three hours later looking like they’d auditioned for a survival show.

As we packed up to leave, my father-in-law pulled me aside, handed me a leftover steak tip wrapped in foil like it was contraband, and said, “You’re not half bad, Seaton.” High praise from a man who once called me “that lawyer who talks too much.” The rain finally eased as we drove away, leaving Vermont’s soggy hills behind. My wife was quiet, my kids were bickering, and I was already dreading the credit card bill for all that booze.

So here’s to my father-in-law, 80 years young, tougher than a $2 steak, and the architect of a birthday bash that’ll live in infamy. Happy Friday, y’all. I’m off to nurse this hangover and swear off maple vodka forever. See you next week!