Every sitcom does the ""Thanksgiving Episode,"" typically featuring the inexperienced and forgetful cook, the burnt turkey, the still-frozen turkey, the drunk uncle who exposes himself at dinner and passive-aggressive familial insults.
These characters and situations are a bit unrealistic, and while I still enjoy ""Friends""' ""The One With All the Thanksgivings,"" ""The One with the Football"" and ""The One Where Underdog Gets Away,"" most people don't get to watch a 46-foot-tall cartoon character float through downtown Manhattan from the roof of their apartment building. These characters never experience the true monotonous shit that is family holidays, the type of family holiday that could ruin your whole day–NAY–your whole break. If my life were a sitcom, this is how my Thanksgiving episode would play out.
At noon my phone's alarm blares, ""ALABAMA, ARKANSAW / I DO LOVE MY MA AND PA."" I reach for my phone violently and instead fall out of bed. As I'm laying on the floor I realize that I'm back at home and the dresser where I laid my phone was on the other side of the bed. Oops.
The sweet smell of home cooking is in the air and I'm starving. Only a moment after getting ready, the family starts to arrive. Grandma arrives first because, per usual, my mom has forgotten how to make the gravy and Grandma has been summoned early to help. But Grandma has some major difficulties arriving, since the main entrance to our house is at the top of a ramp, which has been covered in ice-glazed snow and looks like a scene from ""Jackass Number Two."" With everyone's help and the use of the poinsettia-decorated tablecloth, we were able to help my 83-year-old grandmother up the inclined ice-skating rink, give or take a few domino-style falls.
As my mom and grandma hem and haw over the correct viscosity of the gravy, my annoyingly gorgeous cousin Heather arrives with the rest of her blah-looking family, looking like Lindsay Lohan in her pre-hag days. Whore.
Along with Heather arrive aunt Tilly and her husband Leonard. Uncle Leonard is a slow, flatulent bald man with a voice like Foghorn Leghorn and the spontaneity of a sloth. Leonard heads straight for the couch to turn on the football game while making a snarky comment directed at my mom about it being too early to put the Christmas tree up.
As usual, aunt Tilly makes one of her classic jokes about my ever-ascending height and then asks in a low, almost-secretive voice, ""So tell me dear, do you have a boyfriend?"" It never ceases to amaze me how the further North I am in Wisconsin, the more I'm asked about my relationship status than I am about school or work or my well-being in general, as if it's the end-all be-all of human existence. The question is never, ""Stephanie, how's the TRIPLE major coming?"" Or, ""Did you enjoy studying abroad in Paris?"" Nope. Their main concern is if I'm getting it on. Imbeciles.
Dinner is, as always, delicious. The company, on the other hand, is less than mediocre. There wasn't much hope for the rest of the evening after listening to their itemized ""I'm thankful for…"" lists. Listening to how thankful second-cousin (once-removed) George was for his ""brand new, fuggin' bitch-ass Ford F 250 Super Duty"" was like hearing someone say, ""I'm thankful for Global Warming. Oh yeah, and dead babies.""
You know what I'm thankful for? Only having to see these idiots twice a year.
The rest of the family, and by that I mean those of the trailer-park-persuasion, head out to play football, while cousin Heather, my grandma and myself stay inside to play Sorry! As much as I'd like to be at the head of the feminist movement and take part in the annual family football game, I'm about as sporty as a sugar cookie and God forbid Heather break one of those plastic French-tips.
However, staying in with these two is about as fun as a proctology exam. Every time Grandma draws a ""backwards four"" she moves her pawn forward, and when I remind her that she has to move it back, she throws the card into the middle of the table and mumbles, ""Well if that doesn't say ‘forwards four' then there's something rotten in Denmark.""
I roll my eyes and walk to the kitchen for my 10th glass of wine to find that fat uncle Leonard, who was passed out face-down in the beanbag chair in the basement, had emptied the last bottle. And that, dear readers, is how my Thanksgiving was ruined—no more wine.
Like most sitcoms, the 15 of us would then end the show with a synchronized dance routine to ""End of the Road,"" by Boyz II Men, with me and my cousin on lead vocals and my mom boxing the beat.
Curtain falls. Credits roll. Leonard farts. Show's over.
