The Best Thanksgiving EVER!

Well, it's that time of year again: stuff the turkey, open a can of cranberry sauce, layout the relish tray, and enjoy a thick slice of pumpkin pie (possibly from the one you carved just a few weeks ago!). That's right boys and girls, it's Thanksgiving time once again! We never actually had the traditional Thanksgiving in my family, Mother usually fried up some chicken legs and made her famous mackerel pudding, but I can remember the year we had the best Thanksgiving ever.

I was in elementary school at the time, Sissy was just starting Junior High. Mother, for reasons that are still unclear, decided to go visit an aunt we'd never met (or even heard of, actually) for the holiday and left Dad in charge. Dad decided that Thanksgiving was for the birds and suggested we make up our own dinner. He gave us a pen and paper and told us to jot down a grocery list. He sat on the couch swilling his special medicine while Sissy and I rooted through the kitchen. We planned the whole thing out: there would be pancakes and bacon, wheat toast with jelly, french fries in cheese and chili, marshmallow salad with chocolate sauce dressing, Coco Puffs stuffing, mashed ice cream with caramel gravy, Pepsi-Cola served in Mother's wine glasses, cherry pie for dessert, applesauce, grapes, and pickles.

Excited that our list was finally complete, we hopped on the couch rousting Dad from his drunken stupor. He drove us to the market and we gleefully filled up the basket. We couldn't believe what an awesome Thanksgiving we were about to have. Sissy was yammering non-stop while I fantasized about how my classmates would react as I recounted my awesome holiday dinner. After all the boring, traditional stories about what everyone had for dinner, I'd get up and recount our elaborate spread. Mouths would drop open, sighs of jealousy would permeate the air, Georgia would reach over and take my hand in hers. The whole school would be envious of me and my sugar-filled dinner. Just as Georgia and I were about to make out in the coat closet, I heard a beleaguered "Uh-oh" from Dad.

It seems Mother cleaned out his wallet before she left, leaving him with just $10. Our Thanksgiving would be ruined! Sissy started throwing her famous tantrum as Dad paid for pancake batter and a six-pack of Schlitz. Dad wearily drank his beer as Sissy continued screaming all the way home. I was just sad. It now appeared that I wouldn't be the envy of the school and I wouldn't be making out with Georgia any time soon. A single tear fell from my eye and splashed to my clasped hands below.

When we arrived home, Dad disappeared into the kitchen as Sissy disappeared to her room. I found my way to the TV and zoned out. I imagined Georgia and I in the coat closet, doing to her what I once saw Dad do to Mother. Twenty minutes later I heard Dad calling from the kitchen. He undoubtedly had bowls of cereal waiting for our consumption. Sissy lumbered downstairs and we both somberly tromped into the kitchen.

"Buck up, you little shits, Dad's got a surprise for you," he said, his speech slightly slurred, "Dinner is served!" He plopped down two huge stacks of fluffy, hot pancakes. There were blueberry, banana, cinnamon and just plain-old regular. Sissy and I stared at each other, wide-eyed. "Eat up before they get cold!" he demanded. Sissy and I hungrily dove in. "How'd you learn how to make pancakes, Dad?" I asked between mouthfuls, "You don't know how to cook!" He turned and gave me the same look I get just before a hefty thumping, "What do you mean, Dimbulb? I can cook! Now shut up and eat your dinner!" I heartily complied.

Later, after Dad finished off another bottle of "dinner," and Sissy and I were full to bursting with pancakes, plates stacked in the sink waiting for Mother's return, I witnessed something I'd never seen before, and never since: Sissy said, "Thanks Dad, I love you," and kissed him on the cheek. He belched his reply as she skipped out of the house, gearing up for playtime with Bobby Walker from down the street. "yeah, thanks Dad," I said as I made to peck his cheek. He swatted me away and growled "don't you kiss me, you little girl. Now go grab me another beer!"

As I went to grab him another beer my heart filled with love and joy. This was truly the best Thanksgiving ever. Dad made us delicious pancakes, Sissy was in a good mood, and I actually got to bring Dad a beer--the first of many as it turns out. I was sorry Mother missed the whole thing, but when she got home she didn't seem to mind. Although her trip was "exhausting," she certainly looked refreshed and revived. So maybe it was the best Thanksgiving for everyone.

The Case of the Missing Halloween Candy

Once again it's time to don our witch's hat or vampire fangs and parade about the neighborhood collecting treats from the freindly neighbors, and playing tricks on the not-so-friendly ones. This year, as in all previous years, I have made my costume. I am a partially-chewed bog bone, inspired by my late labrador's love of bones from the butcher, of which Mother still buys and Sissy still gnaws on from time to time (usually when she's on a diet and she desperately needs protien. And blood). Tonight I shall fiercely guard my loot so as not to repeat the incident last Halloween which has bewildered me, and my detective alter-ego Mr. Detective, for the last 365 days. I speak of the Great Candy Caper, or the Case of the Missing Halloween Candy. I shall start from the beginning...

2005 saw perhaps my finest costume design: an Imperial AT-AT from The Empire Strikes Back. Unfortunately it was so big and heavy I had to leave it at home and use Sissy's old bat costume. My best friend Pete and I wandered the neighborhood, filling our pillowcases with Snickers, SweetTarts, M & M's, and other Halloween favorites. After a few hours and countless houses (including old Granny McCracken's, who once again provided us each with a penny and some crayons), we decided to call it quits for the evening. I lugged my sack home feeling the weight of the fruits of my labor. Dad was passed out in front of the TV, some B-grade horror flick quietly screaming in the background. Mother, eying my pillowcase hungrily, welcomed me home. Sissy wandered down from her room with Bobby Walker (from down the street) in tow and made a snide comment regarding my costume. To be fair, the black leggings had become a couple sizes two small since I'd last worn the costume. None the less, I returned the comment with one of my own regarding the musky stench of sex and pot emanating from her body. This is the freeze-frame moment. All suspects are present in this scene, each with their own motive for stealing the lime-green and yellow-striped pillow case filled with treats.

I had gone to my room, pillowcase in hand, to count and separate each piece by size, kind, color and age. I remember setting the candy next to my dresser as I undressed for bed. When I awoke the next morning, ready for a breakfast of Almond Joys and Starburst, the candy was missing, my door was ajar and my window was open. A ransom note saying simply "Thanks," was found next to my pillow.

Dad: perhaps when he awoke, with a hangover and a headache, he ate some candy trying to soak up the alcohol. Problem is, Dad rarely eats and candy is probably the last thing he'd put in his mouth. Generally his meals are of the liquid variety. The only reason he'd have to steal my candy would be to teach me some non-lesson about personal property.

Mother: overweight and always hungry (much like dear departed Kitty), she could eat the entire sack in just one sitting. She was my prime suspect for a long time until she confessed. Mother NEVER confesses her crimes, choosing to mask her guilt with half-baked excuses and horribly inept lying. She's now at the bottom of the list.

Sissy: my prime suspect, she's forever looking for ways to push my buttons and make my life a living hell. She'd steal my candy and flush it down the toilet piece by piece just for a laugh (I know because that's what she did three years ago. I was left with stale Bit O Honey's and, of course, Granny M's crayons). Problem is, she does evil things to my face, not behind my back. Also, I don't have a shread of evidence against her, no matter how hard I've tried to plant some.

Bobby Walker (from down the street): he's merely a suspect based on being present at the time of the crime. I have no reason to believe he is involved in the heist, except I saw him munching on a Milky Way when he left that night and I don't know where he could have gotten it. According to Sissy that's not the only thing he munched on. Based on her statement he remains a top suspect.

Years of intense CSI viewing has taught me that things are not always what they seem. Perhaps the candy theft was not an inside job as I orginally suspected. Clues leading to another suspect altogether would be my open bedroom window, a trail of candy wrappers leading into the woods, small as-yet-unidentified fibers, fingerprints and DNA from Sissy's bed, Pete's suddenly doubled Halloween haul, and the ransom note found sitting on my pillow. So far they have yielded no leads. I did end up recovering the pillowcase, empty besides the crayons crushed to pieces, under the trampoline in the back yard. Sadly, this case, along with all the others, has found it's way to the Cold files where it sits today. I may never find out who stole the candy, but Mr. Detective never gives up. And in a bold move I decided that tonight I will give my sack to Pete for safe keeping. Tomorrow morning I shall have a breakfast of Reese's Pieces and Butterfingers.

My First Bicycle

I remember when I received my first bike. It was Christmas Day, 1985. Santa had once again forgotten to stop by. Mother said it was because he couldn't remember where we lived. Dad said it was because he was drunk. I think Santa must have been drunk because I wrote him every year and always put our address in big bold letters on the envelope. I always suspected my Dad took him to the bar whenever he showed up and got him so liquored up he forgot to leave the presents. Either that or his elves didn't update his database properly. I kind of hate those little green buttholes.

Anyway, the stockings were still hung by the chimney with care, deflated and sad looking. Sissy shouted something obscene at Dad and ran to her room crying. Dad huffed and took a swig of his "special medicine." Mother shook her head and and bit into her morning drumstick. I felt confused, but remained hopeful that next year Santa would finally come. That's when Dad looked out the window and said, "What the fuck?"

A small bicycle was laying on the lawn. I squealed with delight. A brand new bike, just for me! Santa really did remember! I ran outside, still clad in my Superman footy pajamas, to get a closer look. It was old and rusted, with deflated tires, a broken bell and no chain. The handlebars had no handles, the seat was just a pole. It was beautiful. Dad cursed the neighbors as I hugged my new bike tightly.

Dad tried to throw the bike over the fence, but I insisted Santa left it for me. Dad grumbled an agreement and went into the garage to see what he could do. He found some old bike tubes, took the chain and banana seat off of Sissy's bike (who was standing in the doorway looking huffy) and affixed them to Rusti (that's what I named her). I was ready to go. Dad spent the day teaching me how to ride. He held onto the seat as I peddled with gusto. Soon, I could peddle on my own as Dad sprawled out on the lawn, his bottle of special medicine close at hand.

This was the best Christmas I ever had. Even better than the one when the cops came. Don't feel bad for Sissy, Mother said she got "VD" from Bobby Walker down the street, so at least she got something.

Assault!

Today as Mother and I did some grocery shopping, I found myself assaulted by a rather large woman. I spotted her in the frozen foods pondering which frozen pizza's offered the best deal. Her blue, yellow and green checked muumuu billowing out as she opened and closed various doors. Her hair was the color of copper wiring, and just as natural looking, done up in a massive bun atop her head. Her five chins hid a bevy of gold and silver necklaces, all with large, swaying pendants. Her eye shadow was the color of limes, her lips the color of fresh salmon. I was intrigued with the old whale. I needed a closer look so I told Mother that I needed to pick out a pizza of my own.

I dashed over as non-chalantly as I could. I sidled up next to her pretending to be vastly curious in the myriad selection of pizzas. I glanced up at her, her face scrunched into a ball of indecision as she pondered which of two brands she should purchase. Her globs of lipstick bunching together as she pursed her lips. As I silently voiced my own opinion, my nostrils became assaulted by a monstrous smell. There was a mixture of Chanel, onions, and Ben-Gay, with a strong under current of sweat within our immediate vicinity. Before I knew what was happening, I let out a loud "Peeeeyewww!"

"Excuse me, young man?" she exhaled.
"Oh, sorry" I said, searching wildly for an excuse, "I just farted."
After momentarily gathering her thoughts she exclaimed, "Well, that is just RUDE!"
"Sorry, ma'am," I said, "but it smells as though you're in need of a shower."
"Well!" She huffed, her face beginning to boil. "Where is your Mother, young man?!?"
I couldn't let Mother find out, so I pointed to a frail lady picking out concentrated juices at the opposite end of the aisle. With much effort, as it was practically over flowing with foods, she turned her cart and stomped along behind it yelling "Excuse me? Excuse ME!" as she approached the old woman. That's when I made my exit.
I found Mother in Produce sniffing oranges. "God, I could just smell these all day. It's heaven!" she breathed as I approached. I let out a huge sigh of relief.

Just as I was thinking I was saved I heard a booming voice bellow "There you are!" My heart sank as I turned to look. There, next to the bananas, was the fat lady, looking like a red bull ready to charge. I gasped.
"Are you that little shit's Mother?" she yelled as she passed the potatoes. A couple rolled off the display and plopped to the floor. One hand was pushing the cart, as the other was balled into a fist swirling around her head. Mother dropped her orange.

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked. The woman finally approached and screeched to a halt.
"Do you KNOW what your little brat said to me?" She fumed.
"Uh, no, sorry." Mother was clearly perplexed. She turned to me asking, "did you say something to the... uh... nice lady?"
"ME?" I questioned "Never!" I put on the puppy eyes. That always gets Mother.
"Why you lying little mouse turd!" Old Fats was really fuming now.
"OK," I admitted, "I maybe, perhaps, sorta mentioned something about a horrible stench emanating from her body. But it was the truth!" That's the precise moment the woman took the opportunity to start bashing me over the head with her purse. Luckily I was wearing my blue crash helmet. I wear it to ward off angry fat old ladies.

It took a while to subdue the old whale. Three employees of the store and a security guard were needed to wrestle her to the ground. They dragged her off to a holding cell, all the while kicking and screaming and calling me names like "shithead," "asshat," and "tard boy." Mother gave me a disapproving look, but soon forgot as she continued to sniff oranges.

On our way home, Mother said, "She really did stink." In that moment I loved Mother just a little bit more.

Delicious Dinner

Every once in a while, Mother likes to dig out her old recipe cards and whip up something special for dinner. Tonight is one of those extra-special occasions. We're celebrating Mother's recent weight loss (10 pounds in 2 days! It really pays to get the stomach flu when you're morbidly obese, just ask Mother!). I am so excited, I can't wait to be let out of my room!

Mother likes to have a full course meal when celebrating any sort of weight loss. Our meal will begin with scrumptious Fish Balls and a Chilled Celery Log for appetizers. Once we've had our fill of balls and logs we'll move on to the Jellied Tomato Refreshers (my favorite YUM!), which are quite good. We don't have brandy snifters, so we just use Dad's beer mugs. I like to pretend I'm getting drunk, which usually elicits a laugh from Sissy and a hearty thumpin' from Dad. After we've drained our mugs of the jellied tomatoes, with much fanfare Mother delivers the main course to the table: Liver Pate en Masque, Mmmmmmm! I usually have two helpings of this 'cause it's my very favorite of all meals Mother cooks (besides the Chef's Surprise, which is usually all leftovers thrown into a pan and baked at 350 for 30 minutes. Oh my god, my mouth is salivating!). Of course, the best is always saved for last: dessert! Tonight is gonna be a surprise, but I sincerely hope it's the Fluffy Mackerel Pudding! Mother usually makes an extra cup just for me, as it's my favoritest of all desserts in the whole wide world! I am so happy right now I could just... oh. I just did. Well, I must change my underpants now!

Crash Helmet

As I was primping in front of the mirror this morning I decided my helmet was looking a little too plain. Normally I won't wear my green helmet with brown slacks, usually the orange one adds a nice contrast in color, but today I was feeling a little frisky in the clothes department. At first I liked the smooth, shiny surface of the helmet, but today isn't a reserved sort of day, I needed something with a little pizazz, a little flair, something with a bit of sartorial charm. I tried using markers to paint pretty pictures, but firstly the color choices are few and far between because I so often use markers I tend to run out of ink (well, that and I chew on the ends, which Mother just despises), and secondly the marker just rubbed off when I touched the helmet. With that plan gone I decided to actually paint pretty pictures with my water colors. Well, as I'm sure you've already guessed, the colors just ran off. That's when the light bulb blew. Not because I had an idea, but because after two months it finally burnt out. But it did illuminate one alternative: stickers. Usually, Mother doesn't allow me to have any stickers because of the refrigerator incident. And the car incident. And the dog incident (I still maintain my innocence, Mother!). But I know where she keeps them. After rooting through multiple drawers in Mother's dresser, and trying on a strange black lace number, I finally found my stickers. Then came the quandary of the day: which stickers do I affix to my helmet? Superman? Scooby-Doo? The Princess Collection? So many choices, but ultimately I knew there was only one that would do my Army green helmet justice: The Princess Collection. Now I'm looking pretty cool. You should have seen the looks on the faces of each passers-by as I walked to the comic book store. Man, did I turn heads or what?!? Sure, Mother will be upset (especially when she sees what I did to her black lacy garment), but I feel complete. I'm thinking tomorrow I might go the rebel route and wear jeans with the black helmet. That ALWAYS gets the girls. Especially when I wear the purple jeans.