My best friend’s family is nuts. Her mom has six sisters and three brothers, from sixty-eight year old Auntie Sandy, a full-time nanny with three boob jobs, four face-lifts, bi-weekly botox, and an endless string of lovers to dynamic Uncle Jerry, a lecherous Lake Tahoe card dealer who told my pal, his niece, “if you were my daughter, I’d bend you over” last Easter. Her house is constantly bursting like a chubby man in a Speedo with aunties, uncles, grandparents, and fourth Cousins twice removed. Family get-togethers include hard alcohol, keg-stands, romantic rendezvous, and drama. Always drama.
Thanksgiving this year promised to be no different: an entree of theatricals accompanied by a gravy of tears. Cousin Jimmy, an extremely successful graphic designer, has a beautiful 5,000 square foot house in the suburbs—the quintessential home to host a lively feast. He invited the family to his house for this year’s ritual turkey carving. He was petrified to tell his hormonal, pregnant, and temperamental wifey, Cousin-in-law Cindy, that they were hosting this year. So he didn’t. (Cindy, coincidentally, is not a blood relative but is also completely insane.) The Monday before Thanksgiving, Cousin Karen, who was recently heavily medicated for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, called Cindy to ask if she should make rosemary or blue-cheese mashed potatoes. Cindy said, “Mmmm, sounds incredible! What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?” Karen responded, “Coming to your house, duh!” Long uncomfortable silence.
Two days later, things got even worse ... by the second. The Friday after Thanksgiving, my best friend and I went to dim-sum and she gave me the rundown of the family fiasco, a detailed, minute-by-minute account. Here’s how it all went down:
12:15 a.m.: After ripping the fingernails off Cousin Jimmy one by one, a fuming and bloodthirsty Cousin-in-law Cindy, dashes to Safeway for one of the lonely remaining Jennie-O freezer-to-oven turkeys.
12:17 a.m.: Cousin Jimmy re-inflates the aero mattress for yet another night of lovely sleep.
7 a.m.–1 p.m.: Frenzied phones ring off the hook all over the state to figure out who the hell is bringing the T-day fare.
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