Thanksgiving

Today was the type of day only a movie could portray accurately. I don’t know how else to explain other than to say that Martha Stewart would have frowned and shook her head when my sister literally shouted “BINGO!” during grace. Yes, this was Dunbar Family Thanksgiving 2010.

I have often told my parents that I wanted to list our family holidays on Ticket Master as an event. My mom, bless her sweet soul, has always tried her best to plan our festivities to be more beautiful than a Thomas Kinkade painting. However, the rest of the disorderly family members often ruin all that effort in a matter of moments.

This evening, after the prayer fiasco* we were told to ‘dig in’. In my family, it seems as though everyone is afraid that there won’t be enough to go around. There was more grabbing of meat than if we were at a hot dance club. Stuffing and potatoes were plopped onto plates, my dad ran hot laps around the table to be the first one for Yams**, and my uncle’s head was literally missed by mere inches as a homemade roll sailed through the sky. Yes, this is really what it is like.

After the initial commotion of jockeying for food, the table goes silent except for the munching of hungry mouths. Somewhere amid this solace of silence, murmurs of chatter begin to take place. It is then that I proudly announce that they really don’t serve beer in hell+ that a firestorm of conversation erupts. Cursing sprinkles the dialogue until my sister cuts in and states that our talk is probably making baby Jesus cry. Yes folks, this is the same sister who couldn’t help but shout “BINGO!” during grace.

I pour the last glass of wine for myself.

Soon after dinner, everyone finds themselves too full to help clean the kitchen – this is pretty typical. Being the resourceful gal I am (and not wanting to get stuck cleaning the kitchen), I find our only non-family member (A.K.A. real guest) smoking outside and instruct her that it is her duty to wash the dishes in the kitchen. I find this extremely satisfactory. I get the feeling however, that my mom, doesn’t think so. My dad, often on the end of the spectrum with me, agrees and instructs something else to our lone-non-family guest.

I find a bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass.

I then meander under the family radar to my parent’s quiet bedroom. I stretch out on their designer comforter set and allow the fullness of my belly to absorb every bit of me. With my half-marathon quickly approaching, I suddenly appreciate carb loading – and with gusto. I am completely stuffed, tired from the turkey, and perhaps a little tipsy++.

Just when I am getting cozy, my mom comes in to berate me for falling asleep. She tells me that I need to come out and visit with family. Mind you, this is the DUNBAR house. I can HEAR them even if I had stayed home. Our family is loud and rambunctious. I slowly make my way back to the living room where my husband is glued to the football game alongside my brother in law. I wonder how on earth he can even hear it over the top of my aunt yelling at my uncle, my uncle pretending that he’s old and senile, my mom asking everyone if they want pie (bless her for trying to keep the spirit alive) and my dad telling me that I need to finish off the bottle of champagne.

I grab the bottle of champagne and after evaluating the contents, I decide it’s best to shotgun the bottle and not waste any time. I am ready to go home. My sister tells me that I shouldn’t drink all the champagne, my husband snaps out of his trance and grabs the camera and my mom scolds me in advance for vomiting on her carpet. All I can think is: Game On! Down the hatch the champagne goes and my name is being shouted in a chant by my family.

I win the champagne challenge and as first place, I get to recycle the bottle.

Whoever could have planned a better Thanksgiving?



*Dear Jesus, please take mercy on my sister’s soul.

**Which no one likes anyway.

+No idea where this came from, at the time, this part of the conversation was relevant. Now? Not so much.

++ Okay, maybe a LOT tipsy. But who cares? It’s a holiday.