One of my favorite holidays is Thanksgiving. Unless you’re working in retail, you have a long five-day weekend to shop for Christmas and visit your family.
There have been times when I have been unable (okay, I was too broke) to go home to visit my parents for the holidays. I have discovered over the years that sometimes cooking your own dinner and watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade and Dallas Cowboys game alone is the way to go. I have had enough of the proverbial “Thanksgiving Dinner Invitation.”
You remember when I had dinner with the family of former police officers who turned dinner into a WWE Smack Down! wrestling match. Officer Big Daddy, bearing a striking resemblance to Terry Bradshaw, walked around with a gun placed in his plaid pants like Al Bundy’s hand from Married with Children. Big Daddy walked around the family room like he was wearing a soiled diaper. Every time he walked by a mirror, he would grab his gun and scream, “You’re going down, punk!” The first two times he did this routine, I hit the deck because I wasn’t sure if the gun was loaded. After the third time he did this, I started to see the humor. I must admit that I just waiting for the gun to go off in his pants (I needed a good laugh), which meant, yes, I was staring at his crotch. Well, Officer Big Daddy thought I was “checking him out” and told me that “he had more where that came from.” His son, Officer Normal, saw the exchange and told me to excuse his father’s behavior. It seems that Officer Big Daddy was “retired” from the force due to “extreme prolonged periods of mental exertion.” Meanwhile, Officer Big Momma, whose ankles and knees cracked whenever she walked, was in charge of the family sobriety checkpoints. If I heard her once I heard her a million times say to her six-year-old grandson, “Raise your left leg and place your right index finger on your nose.” I told her, “Ma’am, he’s drinking tropical punch Kool-Aid.” She responded to me by using her middle finger to demonstrate her IQ score. I grabbed my keys and headed for Red Lobster, which closed early due to the holiday.
A couple of years later, I spent Thanksgiving with Kevin, the guy I was dating at the time. We were invited to his friend’s house for dinner. I knew something was wrong when we got lost on the way over there. I asked, “When is the last time you saw this person?” He replied, “Fifteen years ago but recently we caught up.” That was my hint that this little get-together was going to be a colossal disaster. Forty-five minutes late, we walked into the house where a plume of smoke hovered, carrying a very distinctive scent. Put it to you this way—the host didn’t have a pet skunk. Again, this was a sign to just GET OUT! Kevin said to me, “We don’t have to stay long. Let’s just socialize and get a quick bite and we’ll leave within an hour.” Reluctantly I agreed, but I knew that something was about to hit the fan.
When dinner was announced, let’s just say that the munchies were in full effect. It was like a pack of dogs following one female dog in heat. We finally made it to the table, where I had an ounce of potato salad, one fork of collard greens, a sliver of cranberry sauce, and a diet Coke. Seeing that his hopes for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner were dashed by the Attack of the Zombies, a very ticked-off Kevin grabbed the last chicken wing, the final sliver of cranberry sauce, half of the last roll (I had the other half), and a spoon of green peas. Kevin leaned over to me and said, “I saw some fruit on a statue in the other room. I can have that,” and headed to the other room.
Okay, I was in that room as well and the only fruit I saw was on a statue of Buddha. Kevin was about to jack up BUDDHA. I gave my plate scraps to the whining dog in the kitchen and ran to the room, and there was Kevin: “This orange is so good.” Meanwhile, a small group of Stepford junkies started screaming at him. Thirty-five seconds later, we were in the In-N-Out Burger drive-thru. However, due to a power failure, the restaurant closed.
Then there was the dinner with the happily married couple, Tracy and Colin. Finally, I thought I would have a “normal” Thanksgiving dinner. But they decided to get a divorce just before we ate. Suddenly there was a sound in the kitchen: “You did what?!” Linda and Shep, the other invited guests, looked at each other and then at me. Tracy and Colin came out of the kitchen with the turkey, and let’s just say something had gone down. See, this is when I should have grabbed my keys. Tracy said, “Angela, would you pray over dinner? Because Colin sure can’t with his lying, cheating, low-down, tail!” Before I could respond, Colin said, “Yeah, let’s let a real woman pray over dinner—not a narcissistic, domineering, hard-hearted control freak.” Linda and Shep got up from the table, grabbed their keys, and said, “We’ll pick up our plate and utensils later.” Tracy responded by saying, “Fine, I didn’t want you over here anyway,” and Colin said, “You both need to be on Jenny Craig anyway.”
Okay, cue the awkward moment. If I stayed, it would be hell. If I left, it would be hell. So I took them up on the offer to pray. “Dear Lord, Dear Lord, Dear Lawd, Dear, Dear, Dear Lawd. I, ah . . . I, ah . . . The Lord is my shepherd, and he prepares a table before in the presence of—” Before I could finish my prayer, I felt something whiz by my head. I opened my eyes just in time to see the turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy—airborne. Shortly thereafter, a barrage of compound expletives came out of the mouths of my generous hosts. I got on my hands and knees to try to crawl out of the house, but just as I made it to the door, Jerry, the amorous Saint Bernard, thought he found a friend. I turned around and advised Cujo that I would Stephen King him if he continued in this vein. Jerry went away.
I went home grateful to be alive and blissfully single. By the way, what is that noise?
God: Your stomach. You’re still hungry.
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