Wednesday, Nov. 23, 2005
Thanksgiving
I hate Thanksgiving.
No, really. I hate it. There is no holiday worse than Thanksgiving. Seriously, it should have died with the pilgrims.
Why, you may ask, could Anna hate a holiday that promotes the gluttonous to do nothing other than sit on their asses and eat food?
Well, my dear friends, let me tell you.
1.) Turkey. Turkey is awful. Turkeys are kept in inhumane conditions. Turkey tastes like shit. My grandmother, the saint that she is, has bought a 26 pound bird when there are four people invited to dinner. The poor woman couldn't even get the damned bird into her cart by herself, she had to ask for help, and then roll it up the driveway when she got home.
She calls me. "Anna sweetheart, is your friend Lauren still coming over for Thanksgiving dinner?" It was Sunday at the time, and I still had no answer from Lauren.
"Actually Gran- I think Lauren prefers her own disfunction over ours."
"How can she not want my turkey though? Who wouldn't want to eat some of this succulent turkey? There's going to be so much left over. Who wouldn't take pity on an old woman and eat some of her turkey?"
"Hey, Gran? I have something to confess to you. I've kept this a secret for a long time now, and since legally I'm almost an adult, I think I should tell you this."
I can hear my gran choke on whatever it is that she's drinking. "You have syphallis, don't you! I knew that fooling around with that mama's boy* would get you in trouble!"
"No, it's not a- who said I was fooling around with him?! Anyway, no. No. No. Just- no. Actually, waht I was going to tell you is that- Gran- I'm a vegitarian."
Gasps abound, everyone. Gasps abound. My grandmother, the seventy-year-old woman who withstood the test of not one, but three alcoholic husbands (which leads me to wonder if she picked up men at AA meetings), the woman who secretly smokes pot for her glaucoma and exaggerates her symptoms for more doobie- My grandmother, grew faint of heart.
"You're eating the turkey," she said with such determination that it made me feel like I was being sent to the room.
2.) Family. My family is crazy. CRAZY. The last time I went over to my Gran's for Thanksgiving dinner I wound up hiding for cover under the table, and eating my own hair. Reggie, (aka my shrink for any of you who haven't figured out that I treat my shrink like God) says that this is the only time that he's heard of someone going into a regressive mental state over a family gathering. You see, not only was I rocking myself underneath the table and eating my own hair- I was nearly sixteen at the time.
I had to endure my Uncle Joe (dropped out of highschool, joined the Navy, stole from the Navy resulting in a dishonorable discharge and jailtime, marries crackwhore [litterally], cares for her and her children, drives a truck) my Aunt Cindy (married an amish man, believes that Satan possessed my soul until the age of 16) and my father (crazy. just plain crazy). They drove me into mental regression, it was so bad.
Thankfully this year, it's only my pot-smokin' grandmother, my mother, and I. But still, I know that Reggie's getting a call first thing friday morning.
5.) The Pilgrims and the Indians Native Americans American Indians. Yeah. Why do we, as Americans, celebrate a holiday in honor of the Indians/Native Americans/American Indians for helping our white asses live through the winter? (And yes, I am white and anglo-saxon, so I'm allowed to use the phrase "white-asses") I mean, if we hold a feast every year to honor those that lived and died at Plymoth Rock and to celebrate unity between the Pilgrims and the Indians-
Well.
Don't you think a nicer way of saying "Thanks!" would have been to NOT go on massive crusades killing these people?
I bet General George Armstrong Custer loved his turkey too.
* Please note: that "Mama's Boy" is now the phrase that my family chooses to refer to Cody by. Despite my protestations, my family will not stop reffering to him in this manner. They are a cruel and relentless people, those relatives.
theparisian at 9:00 p.m.