One of the main things I remember about my grandfather at Thanksgiving and Christmas was the cursing - fucking football game, fucking croquet wicket (yes in California we can actually play croquet on all major holidays - no snow and all), fucking turkey filling the oven no room for my fucking sides, fucking tree can't fit through the front door (insert goddamn here and there and it's about right). These fits of obscenity in my, otherwise (oh who am I kidding) devout and proper Catholic, grandfather were silliness to me. I loved it! He was human and, with a beer or 3 in him, he showed it. I think of these times with warmth in my heart. I miss my family, which is now spread all over the country, most at the holidays. We were once so close, but life has pushed us to all ends of the earth - ok the US, but it feels like all ends of the earth, ok?
I think my favorite Thanksgiving memory of all was when I was 19. I was dating this hunk of a man, who happened to be 23, and also happened to have some not so legal dealings in the area, but he was gorgeous and we had fun. We were sitting around the house the night before Thanksgiving ('twas the night before Thanksgiving and all through the house...no that's not right) and posturing as we all have done at 19.
"I'll bet I can drink you under the table." I said. "I am German you know. We have great tolerances." This after 4-5 Mike's hard lemonades - of course, making me feel a bit bolder than usual. (Yes, I can be BOLDER, it is possible, shut up and read.)
"No way!" black god of a man says back. "I have been drinking so much longer than you have. Your ass is mine!"
To which we proceed to take shots of Cuervo 1800, one right after the other. If you have ever had alcohol poisoning from tequila, you know that scent will send you over the edge years later – OMG I hate gold tequila with a passion now. Needless to say, 18 shots of 1800 later, I was down for the count. I proceeded to vomit all over this gorgeous hunk's home (sexy huh?) and, once put in the shower, moaned for my gramma like a 5 year old sick with pneumonia.
The next morning I know I have to get up. I have to brave the smells and warmth of my gramma's home. Oh the smells – gag. I go home shower, put on my best “I am not still drunk from last night” face and do my best to avoid my gramma at all costs.
You should know something about my grandmother – she basically raised me. While I lived with my mom until 14, my grandmother was always around. I moved in with my grandparents at 14 – my grandmother KNOWS me.
But I can’t avoid her completely. The water is in the kitchen. I need water like nobody’s business. So I sneak in every so often and refill my jug-like glass – in hopes that she isn’t paying attention. About ½ way through the day, she asks me to help her wrap some presents for Christmas in grandpa’s office. SHIT!! “Ok, sure, gramma.”
We get in there and the first thing out of her mouth is “You don’t drink water. Are you hung over or still drunk?”
I am now picturing the cursing fits of my grandfather (a 6’3” giant of a scary man, by the way) being directed at me for coming to the holiday drunk and underage. “Ummmm, I am actually not quite sure.”
“Keep drinking water and you had better eat every bite your grandfather puts in front of you or he will know, but I am not telling him, so shut your mouth, too.” She says.
“Thank you, gramma.” I manage to squeak out.
This was the year that my grandfather decided to make a "Tropical Turkey" recipe he had found in a magazine. It was awful. It was luckily so awful that he couldn’t even eat it. The cursing ensued, but it was at the stupid turkey and the stupid article – and not at me. Yay!
While the meal wasn’t eaten, and the day was a blur, I still remember my gramma saving my ass – making this one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories of all time.
Can't hold her tequila, but loves her some vodka - Mimosa, M.D.
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