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.

Snow

Snowflakes flittering down from the heavens can mean only one thing—the brain cells of Western Washingtonians are quickly dissipating. I often find snow fascinating. Not in the sense that it is precipitation that falls from the sky, but rather the way it changes people immediately. Suddenly we find that we have professional meteorologists among us and Double Doppler radars are abounding!

One of the more frequent comments I hear is that of drivers when they say, “It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s all those other idiots out there!” If we really take a moment to ponder this statement, someone has to qualify as the ‘idiot’. I have learned that I am one of the token idiots and any person that I happen to ride with is as well. I have never actually met anyone who is a perfect snow driver. The women get too distracted by the snow’s beauty and the men are typically trying to showboat. Idiots. We are all the idiots everyone else is talking about.

The other comment I find endearing is, “I will just go as slow as I want and people can pass me if they want to!” Well, I am the first to tell you, you can move faster than a snail and not wreck. This type of driving environment should be the hay day of marijuana smokers— you can literally drive 5 MPH, and law enforcement is none the wiser! In fact, pot smoking might actually help those other over-paranoid peeps relax—pass your pipe to the driver next to you who’s sporting some white knuckles!

I also find it humorous that the snow brings out the wanna-be trucks. You all know what I am talking about. If it isn’t a Ford, Chevy or Dodge—it isn’t really a truck. It may pretend to be a truck, but it’s not. It’s like dressing your girlfriend up to be a man—she still has boobs and therefore will never be a man. Your Hyundai, Honda, BMW, etc. will never qualify as a truck in my eyes. Ever. Love me or hate me, I drive a Focus and I know it isn't a luxuary sedan or truck. At least I am real.

Finally, isn’t it strange that when you try to shove your kids out the front door to play in the snow, they complain that it’s cold? It’s like, DUH! Are you new? Snow has never been warm… Hmmmm… I digress. I’ve trashed on enough areas about snow, I suppose I can leave the kids out of it.

I guess my final thought is this, where can you purchase snow shoes online? I am out of wine and my husband took the truck. Dang.

Wino in Tenino

Excitement for an event you have never been to is a very weird feeling. I am going to the Wino in Tenino and from what I hear; it is a very pleasurable experience. I find that most things with the name “Wine” —or some other variation of the word—is almost always a guarantee that good times are to be had. My friend and I are attending on the coattails of my husband who has to work the event.

His work always interests me because he is a beer salesman. He is the closest thing to a legalized drug dealer the free world will ever know. He makes friends easily and although I find him charming, I do find it peculiar that the ears of men perk up when they learn of my dashing husband’s profession—he suddenly becomes a God right before their eyes.

Beer, wine, liquor—it’s really all the same in that it assists you in having either a really great time or an awful and miserable experience. I find that people who really don’t have much of a personality tend to go for the hard stuff. This way they can be drunk faster and thus, become rapidly interesting if only to themselves.

Lightweights who tend to get in a lot of trouble when they drink (read: men) normally go for the beer, microbrews, or malt liquor (think OE or Mad Dog 20/20). It takes a while to get a buzz going and if the person tends to do stupid things, there is always a greater chance they won’t get to that level until the party is damn near over. Then, at that point, nothing the beer drinker does will matter because no one will remember anything—accept the designated driver (read: wife/girlfriend/female) who will mop vomit off the center console at the end of the night.

Finally we get to the winos. These people are true alcoholics. They are refined, yet love to be in a constant state of drunkenness in which wine is about the only medium that can sustain them. Sure, if they pounded the vino, they would be right alongside their hard A friends, but if they drink too slowly, they end up in the beer drinkers/lightweight category. This of course all funnels down to the basic principle that wine drinkers are the only true and professional alcoholics. They get it done—not to mention with class, sex appeal, and sophistication.

So as I think about the Wino in Tenino, I smile because I know I belong with all of my fellow wine lovers.

Welcome home, Dacia, Welcome home.

Gifts Between Spouses

Rarely do I post stories here that are completely true and are not riddled with fiction. However, some of the things that occur in Dacialand are stranger (and much more entertaining) than fiction. Tonight, my husband and I were discussing gifts.

He won a really nice set of Nike golf clubs from work and as his wife; I feel that I am completely entitled to having them. Since he already has a nice set of clubs, he doesn’t want to keep the new set. His rebuttal is that he wants to sell the Nike’s and get the cash because he earned them. The golf clubs are now an issue of pride because I would rather go out and buy myself a new set of $1,000 clubs (and pay the tax AND be inconvenienced) than hand that money over to my own friggin husband so he can upgrade the accessories on his truck. But I digress…

Tonight, while discussing gifts, the following dialogue happened between my husband and I:

“Honey, do you remember back when we were really in love?” I ask, as I bat my lush eyelashes.

“Not really,” He grunts as he puts his hand down his pants while sitting on the sofa.

“Oh! Well, I was referring to when you would have a rough week at work and I would surprise you with a 6-pack of mirror pond, a king size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and a mushy card.” I look at him hopeful that he will remember how sweet I have been to him over the years. My husband turns thoughtful as his brows crease trying to remember the blissful memories.

Finally, he perks up.

“Well, now you just get yourself a bottle of wine and yell at me all night!”

And so it is. We still love each other, but the one thing I have learned is that liking each other is a whole different situation. He seemed to have liked me yesterday. Today though, I think he would prefer that I have a glass of wine. That at least gives him a 50/50 chance of a nice evening.

My plot to get the clubs is far from over. I just need a new plan of action.