Maurna from Cursitivity here reporting for guest blogger duty.
When Debbie asked me if I wanted to do a guest post on her blog, I was like “Um, are you sure you want to do that?” Because you know, she is sweet and amazing and I was worried I would ruin the property value of this blog with my classless vagina talk. She also asked me to talk about how cool I am, but I’m not falling for that old trick.
Also, she totally gave me her log in info so now I am pretty sure I can steal her identity and smoothly move into her life. Which I’d probably be down for.
Some of you probably know me from my own blog. And if you don’t and want to check it out, be warned. This story is a perfect microcosm of my blog. And it is even holiday appropriate. Go me!
It is that time of year when people are going home for the holidays and thinking about the things they are thankful for. Everyone tries to be appreciative of the good things in their life. I thought I would share a tale that I like to think of as: The Thanksgiving that Lives in Infamy.
If your family is anything like mine (and it probably isn’t) then you hate the holidays. Every time I have to see those people they just drive me fucking insane. I have a large family full of what I will charitably call “strong personalities.”
Get togethers growing up were pure misery. There was always a fight; sometimes a literal fist fight (more on that another time). Someone would make someone else cry. Objects were thrown. Things were broken. Decades long familial relationships were severed, never to be re-forged.
I dreaded every holiday and every family get together. Even the holidays I like (all the ones that center around food or candy).
But once I became an adult, that all started to change. Suddenly we were all old enough to drink. And some of them began doing drugs. The people that were at one year’s holiday were not at the next years’ and were never heard from again, in some cases. And people that had gotten the shit beat out of them the year before were better behaved.
One Thanksgiving, my sister W had just bought a house with her newly wed second husband (who also had JUST been diagnosed with leukemia) and she had offered to host for the holiday. She also had a newborn baby (as you can see she is clearly insane).
I brought my then boyfriend, J. My sister J brought her boyfriend, W. My brother T was there. And my mother. And my sister W with her sick husband and newborn daughter.
When we arrived it started innocently enough with my sister’s husband offering to make everyone a gin and tonic. My sister J and her boyfriend had carpooled with me and both of them proceeded to get hammered on gin and tonic with my sister’s husband.
My brother had brought a six pack of craft beer and quickly worked his way through it. My mother and older sister were making short work of a bottle of red wine. And my ex was on his third screwdriver by the time we sat down to eat.
Everyone was buzzing by 3pm. Except me. This was 10 years ago, and way before I realized I even liked alcohol. But I didn’t mind. I had never seen ANY of these people drink before that day. And it was awesome!
For the first time ever, everyone was getting along. Better than getting along, we were actually having a good time. With my family. It was a novel concept.
By the time we sat down to an early dinner, they were all mostly drunk. Everyone was laughing and telling jokes.
It was the first time we’d all gotten together since my brother had returned from his summer trip to Europe and he worked that into nearly every conversation we were having. But nobody minded.
My family is not religious. We never prayed or said grace. But on that one day a year, every year, we all sat down before eating and talked about what we were thankful for. It is one of the very very few traditions in my family.
And it is my tradition to sneak a few incredible bites of turkey skin when everyone else is talking about what they are thankful for. And yes, I know turkey skin is probably the unhealthiest thing ever. I seriously don’t care, I will skin the entire bird and eat that crackling deliciousness with a little salt in less than a minute. I’m like a turkey Hannibal Lecter. Feel free to judge me.
But we never even made it through what we were thankful for that day. Everyone was too drunk to be serious about our tradition. We got right to the business of eating our food. I’m going to be honest here, I suspect there was more than just alcohol in a few bloodstreams that day.
I am notorious in my family for turning the conversation gross over dinner (or in general). I don’t intend to do it. I just am fascinated by gross things and I like to talk about it. And I don’t care if it is while I am eating. So I take full blame for the direction our conversation went that day.
We were talking about food. Which led to us talking about gross food. Which lead to my brother talking about blood sausage. He is now a pescatarian, but he had tried blood sausage in Europe.
We were all fascinated. What did it taste like? Blood? Was it gross? I know I personally could never have eaten that.
And that’s when my brother said. “Well, it wasn’t the grossest thing I have ever eaten.”
Now, the rest of my family knows to not play into a sentence like that. Even drunk, we all knew better. But W’s husband did not.
“What is the grossest thing you’ve ever eaten?” He asked, so innocently.
Without missing a beat my brother replied “Some girl’s asshole.”
He said that. Over Thanksgiving dinner. In front of his mother. And three of his sisters. And their three respective partners.
There was silence over the dinner table. I looked at my mother, sure she was going to freak out. Instead she started laughing. Her loud, hooting, chicken laugh. (No lie, she laughs like a chicken would).
And then the rest of us lost it. We began cracking up. We laughed so hard that we couldn’t speak. Or move. Or make a noise. Tears were streaming down our faces. And my stomach began to ache from laughing so hard. We tried to recover, but for the rest of the meal someone would catch someone else’s eye and we would all just die laughing all over again.
And that was the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.