Thanksgiving is upon us in a few short days and I could not be more excited about it. I never used to enjoy it all that much for whatever reason. I really like stuffing a lot so not sure why the overabundant quantity of that thing alone wasn’t enough to put my negativity aside for the day. I think it had something to do with the level of boredom and predictable annoyance of the day’s events. Eat until you are so unbelievably uncomfortable that you want to take your pants off but can’t because you know, Great Aunt Amy is there and she’s old school when it comes to undressing in front of relatives. Sweet lady though, but don’t ask my Grandma. She’ll be over in the corner projecting negativity all around while rolling her eyes at the fact that Great Aunt Amy is genuinely happy and (gasp!) smiling again. The nerve of that woman! I love you Grandma.
It also could’ve been the mountain of dirty dishes awaiting the women folk coupled with the fact that anyone with a Y chromosome got a free pass to amble into the living room immediately post feast with an unbuckled belt and claim their spot for the rest of the entire day reclined on the couch watching football and high-fiving themselves for eating the most coconut crunch. On a separate but related note, I’m thankful for guys who aren’t pricks.
Or maybe it was the fact that Grandma would ask me the same condescending question every goddamn year without fault, “Were you out late having fun last night Jill?”
“Newsflash Grandma! I’m actually not 18 years old anymore! I’m 30 and have a couple kids now and a real life job so maybe that’s why I look so tired and smell funny?” It wasn’t, but still.
Then one glorious day out of nowhere everything changed all because one young pilgrim bravely arrived to our Thanksgiving feast dressed the exact opposite of what might be categorized as appropriate holiday attire. I owe him my life and honestly cannot to this day imagine the balls it took to purposely seat himself down in between Mom and Grandma at the dinner table while wearing a weathered Mountain Dew t-shirt that to the keener eye actually read “Mount and Do” and then proceed to fill his plate like a goddamn boss whose only care in the world was getting the white dinner rolls before they were all gone and he had to settle for the whole wheat ones. Gross.
I imagine it’s one of those ‘had to be there’ deals, but listening to my Grandmother inquisitively recite “Mount and Do” in a “I know that’s not quite right but can’t really put my finger on it” tone repetitively throughout the entirety of our Thanksgiving meal was hands down THE BEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. I had to remove myself from the table twice, because it was that funny and I am that immature. The angry, “That’s enough Margaret!” bark from Mr. Grumpy Pants sadly brought the fun to an abrupt and untimely end while immediately bringing back vivid childhood memories of the strictly enforced zero tolerance for fun rule at the dinner table. Face forward, engage no one, refrain from speaking, and don’t you dare even think about taking the last piece of bread you selfish little asshole. Ahhh, memories. Regardless, it was a pleasantly unexpected game changer that set into motion from that day forward an unspoken yearly attempt of oneupmanship by the comedic geniuses of the family to transform Thanksgiving from barely tolerable to almost pretty enjoyable. I honestly cannot wait.
This Thanksgiving I am thankful for my beautiful family, wonderful friends who truly appreciate me and all of my dysfunction, lifelong memories of my Grandma’s all around negativity, the men in my life who understand that people with boobs actually have the ability to enjoy watching football too, inappropriate dinner conversations, a brother who is almost as funny me, red wine, a husband who will do the dishes if I angrily stare at him long enough from across the room, and the promise of a brave young man to ask his sweet and innocent mother if she’s ever been to Pound Town.
Pass the stuffing.