Mine was... interesting, like always.
This year, like every other, we spent dinner with my grandmother on my dad's side, out at the old family farm in marianna. It's been a tradition every year since long before I was born that one of the heads of the family would buy a turkey at a farm auction during the summer, raise it, and serve it on thanksgiving, and this year was no different. We all showed up at around 9AM, my mother and I and the rest of the people who know how to handle a kitchen to work inside, and my brother and father and the rest of the beer guzzling morons in the family to shoot and clean the turkey.
Around ten o'clock, they came in asking for help from people to carry the bastard in. I volunteered, and we walked up the hill. At the top of the hill by the slaughter pen was the largest fucking bird I've ever seen in my life. We loaded it into a wheelbarrow, and carted it along to the house. Once inside, my youngest cousin said that we had to weigh it, another obscure family tradition.
That fucker topped out at 37 and a half pounds. That's just a hair over 17 kilograms, for you metric folk.
Normalcy returned, for a few hours. We finished cooking, and had dinner on the table by 4PM. There was the massive fucking turkey, two hams, a capon, potatoes, stuffing, yams, green beans, and all that other happy thanksgiving shit. We ended up with 31 guests, in total.
Somewhere between when he showed up, and when he sat down at the table, my cousin got trashed. Like, not sober enough to pass the gravy trashed. He spilled it all over himself, the table, and all over our one of our aunts. Fiasco #1: minor.
Some short while after that incident, he's looking around and naming off everyone he knows at the table and who they're dating, and if thier dates are here or not, in some fucked up measure to prove to the table that he's sober.
Then it happens. The following dialouge between my cousin and I took place: So, yeah! Seth. Aren't you seeing that one dude, you know, that guy you were at the bar with. What was his name?
Ha, Mike, you drunk bastard. You're so drunk you can't even think straight. Go sleep it off, loser.
No, you were at the bar with some dude. You guys were all over each other! It was kinda nasty, really, but whatever. If you like it up the ass, who am I to judge? What was his name?
It was at that point that I quietly excused myself from the table, forgot about the turkey and all the food, and went on a nice liquid diet of rock and rye.
It wouldn't have been an issue, really, but my grandparents still had no clue. I was hoping to just let them die thinking that eventually I'd get married and have kids and continue the family line, in a white picket house with a big yard out back and a dog or two.
The worst part? When I got back to my parents house to sit and chat and all that bullshit holiday shit, they start asking about the dude from the bar. I haven't been going out much, there were a few bad months with a guy that needs to go and die, and they knew that. They didn't know that I hadn't started dating again, and started in with all the "when will we meet him?" we should have him over for dinner!" shit.
The twist? He was some random guy I had met in the bar, that night. I haven't seen him since the morning after the night I met him.
Sorry, mom and dad.
So, someone tell me they your thanksgiving went better, so I can at least know that someone enjoyed themselves today.