The Pilgrims Must've Partied

What am I thankful for on Thanksgiving? I am thankful for the fact that I only have to celebrate this fucking holiday one day a year.

A Pilgrims-meet-the-Indians dinner somehow turned into an Invite-All-Your-Mother-In-Laws dinner and that just doesn't make anyone feel thankful at all, especially as they're eating brown mashed potatoes topped in marshmallows, which, by the way, is DISGUSTING. How about we just grab some cream corn and top it with licorice? I mean, really? What kind of sick fuck thought of putting marshmallows on top of potatoes? One who died of a heart attack early in life, that's who. But I'll get to the food later. Back to the fact of WHY we celebrate Thanksgiving. Hmmm....well, I don't really know why. Does anyone know why? Because we befriended the Indians? Hmmm....so was that before or after we enslaved most of them? Was that before or after the Trail of Tears? Was that before or after John Smith raped Pocahontas? Is that what we're celebrating? RAPE THE ATTRACTIVE INDIANS DAY! But wait...we can't celebrate that now, can we? Not anymore, not since we wiped out a majority of the whole Indian RACE. And Thanksgiving is supposed to be the "family-oriented" holiday? Come on now. The pilgrims must've partied.

I miss my childhood days of Thanksgiving dinner that lacked a turkey, lacked the stuffing, lacked the gravy, lacked EVERYTHING that everyone else was eating that Thursday night. (I actually love stuffing, but that contradicts my thesis of this entire paragraph so we’re going to pretend that I don’t.) My childhood Thanksgivings were filled with Chinese take-out and a grocery store run that involved the words of, "Pick out anything you want, girls!" The Turkey Days of my past were filled with lo mein, double-stuffed Oreos, Fruity Pebbles, cottage cheese and jello, and some sesame chicken. Oh...those were the days. But now? All of a sudden I've succumbed to a Thanksgiving dinner filled with dishes that I have to stare at for quite some time, trying to figure out what it is exactly, that is until someone comes up and says, "Try the BlahBlahBlah, honey, it's delicious," or, "Try the SoundsDisgustingWhoTheFuckNamedThisAndThoughtItWasAGoodIdea, sweetheart, I know you'll like it." Why? How would you know that? I'd like it because YOU like it? Because me and you have the EXACT same tastebuds? I'd like it because you made it? If you're so good at making things then go make me a PopTart, kitchen bitch. (Not referring to anyone specific here; my stepmom is actually QUITE the chef, but that contradicts the whole point of this post YET AGAIN so we'll just pretend like her meals are not incredibly delicious for the sake of my argument.) Seriously, why do we all eat the same dishes on Thanksgiving? Is it really possible that every single American loves the taste of cranberry dressing on their turkey? Because I sure as hell don't. Why can't I prepare the Thanksgiving dinner one year? I'm pretty positive I'd have a large following, too. Who wouldn't want to come to my house and feast on Gummy Bears and sip on Shirley Temples and munch on cheesecake and follow that up with some Pumpkin Spice lattes and snack on ravioli (Chef Boardee? HELL. YES.) and not only would all those scrumptious entrees be on the list, I would take requests as well! (As long as they were anti-Thanksgiving oriented. Like, "GoGurt." "GoGurt" would be acceptable, whereas as "squash" would not.)

I've had some pretty interesting and yes, that means interesting in a bad way, Thanksgivings in my time. But this year? This year tops them all.

It all started the morning of Thanksgiving, and when I say morning, I mean at 4am.

Thanksgiving morning: 4 a.m.

"WHERE IS YOUR SISTER?!"

My parents moved me to the guest room when I moved out for college. I wouldn't mind that at all if my room had a LOCK on the door.

"...whaaaa...."

(that's me, half-asleep, trying my best to respond to my father who had just barged into my room yelling because one of his daughters was missing)

"IT'S. FOUR. A.M. WHERE. IS. YOUR. SISTER?!"

"What?!"

(that's me, still half-asleep, but suddenly completely aware of the fact that it was 4am and my sister who should've been home three hours ago was still not home, and my father was expecting me to have the answer as to why not)

“I don’t know...”


“YOU DON’T KNOW.”

“Is she not at home?”

“NO, NATASHA, SHE IS NOT AT HOME.”

SLAM!

My door, the one that lacks a lock, is slammed shut and I am left alone in the dark. But not for long.

Thanksgiving morning: 4:03 a.m.

“And WHERE is your car?!”

My lockless door is swung open and there is my father, noticing more and more missing pieces in the puzzle by the minute. Damn.

“What?”

“Your CAR, Natasha. Where is your CAR. It’s not in the driveway. I’m asking you where your CAR is.”

“...it’s on the side of the road.”

“WHERE ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.”

“Down the street.”

“WHY is your CAR not in the DRIVEWAY.”

“Uhhhh...”

Shit shit shit.

“Bleh....”

Think of something, Natasha, think of something, Natasha.

“Ahhh...”

Oh fuck it.

“There’s a boy in the back seat of my car.”

“What. WHAT.”

“He’s asleep in the backseat.”

“And WHY is THAT.”

“He’s drunk.”

“He’s drunk?”

“Wasted.”

“He’s wasted?”

“Really, really drunk.”

“Let me get this straight, Natasha. You came home without your sister. She’s missing AND IT’S FOUR IN THE MORNING. You have an INTOXICATED BOY PASSED OUT DRUNK in the backseat of your car. ARE YOU ON DRUGS.”

“What?”

“You are acting like you are on DRUGS.”

“I am not on drugs. I was ASLEEP when you came in here. I am not on drugs while I am sleeping in my bed. I am not on drugs PERIOD.”

SLAM!

My door, yes, the one without a lock, my lockless door, me no have lock, is slammed and my phone then begins to ring.

“Hello?”

“Natasha?!”

“WHERE ARE YOU.”

Thanksgiving morning: 4:07 a.m.

“IS THAT YOUR SISTER.”

My father has impeccable hearing. Or he was just standing right outside my door with his ear pressed to the glass. Either one.

“Yes, it’s her.”

“WHERE IS SHE.”

“Where are y---”

“GIVE ME THE PHONE.”

“Dad wants to talk to y---”

“WHERE IS SHE.”

“Hey Dad wants to know where---”

“GIVE ME THE PHONE.”

“Hey I’m gonna give the phone to Dad because---”

“WHERE IS SHE.”

“Where are you right n---”

“GIVE ME THE PHONE.”

“OKAY! Here.”

“WHERE ARE YOU.”

I do not hear what is said. I only hear the front door open, the slamming again of my lockless door, and my sister begin to talk to my father. I hit the pillow.

Thanksgiving morning: 4:19 a.m.

“GIVE ME YOUR KEYS.”

"I don't know where they are..."

SLAM!

Goes the door.

SLAM!

Goes my head on the pillow.

Thanksgiving morning: 7 a.m.

“WAKE UP.”

“Whyyyy...”

“Because THERE ARE TWO COPS OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE, NATASHA.”

“What?”

“Your FRIEND that you decided to bring HOME last night is sitting in the back of a COP CAR outside of our HOUSE.”

“WHAT?”

“He tried to BREAK IN to our NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE this morning thinking it was OUR HOUSE and scared THE SHIT out of OUR NEIGHBORS and they called THE COPS.”

“Nooooo...”

A.k.a. FUCK...

"What were you thinking? What was he thinking? Who IS this boy?"

"Uhhh..."

"NATASHA."

"Blahhhh..."

"NATASHA?"

"Wahhh..."

"NATASHA!"

"My boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend."

SLAM!

I think we all know what the "slam" entails by now.

After creepily peering out of my bedroom window for quite some time, I got very paranoid that someone would look up and see me and know for a fact the creeper that I truly am, so I stopped and walked to the front door to find my father and Boy standing in my foyer. Hey! I just can't get enough of these awkward moments! LOVE 'EM!

Thanksgiving morning: 8:32 a.m.

"I'm back!"

"Did you take Boy home?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Yes."

"You're grounded."

"What?"

"Give me your keys."

"What?"

"You'll have your car back on the 26th of December."

"WHAT."

And that was Thanksgiving 2009 for Natasha Ferrier. We'll see if I can top that next year.