Thanksgiving - Part two

The atmosphere at The Grandmother’s is vastly different from Papa’s. It’s like leaving a school assembly that only had one or two mouthy students, then walking into a circus tent chock full of clowns. Paper plates replace china, swear words multiply like Mormons, and there are running, screaming germ breeders everywhere.

The two families couldn’t be more different – a fact thrown into glaring affect as soon as I arrived at Papa’s. Stepping out of my car, I waved at a group of laughing cousins seated at a patio table. The tallest one waved back and came toward me, grinning and blowing smoke out his nose.

“Hey Al”, Tim said, wrapping me in a bear hug. He carried the crock-pot full of dip toward the house and I followed with the bastard ass Italian crème cake. I was already planning to force every single one of them to taste it, whether they wanted to or not.

“Hey whore”, shouted Tim’s wife Ellie as I passed the smoking section. “Menstrual chunk”, I deadpanned back, wrestling with my purse and the cake holder. The others laughed.

Pushing open the heavy, sectioned glass door I walked into a wall of barking dogs. There are seven – Gucci, Sonny, Dixie, Mimi, Gracie, Scooby, and Bud. For as long as I can remember Papa has been surrounded by dogs. They climb on top of him while he lounges in the recliner, sit in the front seat and get their own ice cream at the Sonic drive through, go on boat rides and trips to the city. They’re his babies. And just like any other member of our neurotic family, we’ve learned to accept them and deal with the ruckus they cause...if a little grudgingly.

And, just like every other time I’ve walked in that door, the chocolate brown cocker spaniel, Bud, charged me like a bull and nipped the backs of my calves. He’s so fat that he looks like a barrel, giving the impression that if you tipped him over he’d just roll away. Unfortunately, it’s just an impression. I’ve tried rolling him, shoving him, running from him, shouting at him...everything. I finally developed a routine that semi-works: I hang my purse low and angle it between the two of us as I walk in, screaming at him, “SHUT THE FUCK UP BUD, I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD!” (or something close), giving Tess (Papa’s girlfriend) time to whack him away with the newspaper. It’s the best I’ve been able to come up with. Once I’ve been in the house for a few minutes, though, he’s fine.

“Hey Pop,” I shouted at a corner table. “Hey darlin’”, he boomed back, getting up and following me to the kitchen. My Papa is a big, big man with wispy grayish brown hair, a jowly face creased with laugh lines, and simply enormous earlobes. With blue eyes full of mischief and a contagious laugh, he’s always reminded me a bit of Santa Claus without the beard. His plodding walk – feet turned slightly out, head held at a high angle and arms crossed behind his back – never fails to make my smile.

Reaching my side he rocked back and forth on his heels, arms still behind his back, and looked into the crock-pot. “Mm, The Dip! You’re early! I’m proud!” Nearly everything he says has an exclamation mark on the end and there’s no doubt about where I got my powers of vocal projection. I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then left him and a few others digging around for tortilla chips.

As I was rounding a corner of the island, waving and saying hello to various aunts, uncles, and neighbors, I was slammed into from behind. “OOF! Gggrrroff!” My cousin Christine had, as usual, launched herself at my back and hung there – arms tight around my neck, sending me staggering about the kitchen, trying to shake her off. She knows I hate it and she does it, I’ve gathered, to draw attention to our physical differences. She’s a rail (though she certainly feels heavy clinging to my back) and I have not, nor will I ever be, that tiny. She’s always been the pretty, petite one; I’ve always been the smart, curvy one. I often speak to her using words I know she doesn’t understand – she’s got her bullets, I have mine.

“You love me”, she screeched in my ear. I finally managed to shrug her off and with a long suffering sigh, answered, “Yes, unfortunately I do.”

After making sure the kid was safely ripping the children’s play area to shreds with the others, I made my way back out to the patio. My cousin Dooby and his wife Marie had driven down from Virginia for the weekend and I was excited to see them. “I missed my lesbian life partner”, Marie said as we hugged. We laughed, then relayed the story behind her greeting to the rest of the group. We’d both gotten wildly trashed at the Halloween party and there was a lot of lap dancing and suggestive picture taking.

For an hour we all sat, taking it in turns to make the others laugh with one story or another. When it wasn’t my turn, I found myself observing more than listening. I’d heard most of it before anyway.

Tim leaned against the brick wall, towering over everyone even while slumped. At 22, one of the youngest in our group, he managed to beat us all in The Game of Life. Recently married to a single mom with a five year old son, he’d secured a great job and bought his first house - a long way from the child of a mother in and out of rehab and the teenager caught cashing stolen checks. He’d met Ellie and her son and quickly became a family man.
Dooby paced restlessly, playing with his cell phone, while Marie sat with her legs crossed, calmly puffing on a cigarette. They’d been together for a very long time and had finally taken the plunge into marriage just a year ago. They argue often, but not in a way that causes concern. Somehow their personalities complement each other – Marie almost always appears bored and unconcerned with everything (except when she’s drinking) and Dooby gives passionate speeches about whatever strikes his fancy.

Having nursed him through his younger brother’s death and an addiction to pills, and staying with him after more than one affair early in their relationship, I’ve come to think of Marie as a bit of a hero. In the beginning I thought her foolish, but somehow she managed to pull Dooby back from the brink of destruction and piece him back together. Every now and then he’d glance up from his phone and look at her, the adoration on his face clear as day.

Soon after Christine and I had horrified the other men with a frank discussion about sex toys, it was time to go inside for dinner.

The huge kitchen quickly clogged up with traffic while everyone attempted to fix their plates. Being a veteran of the bob and weave technique, I was soon settled at the dining room table and tucking in to a plate across from Pop. “Mm, this looks good”, he shouted. I nodded, turning my lips up in a grin, mouth stuffed full of macaroni. He always says that, no matter what kind of food is in front of him.

By the time we’d made it to dessert and I’d forced them all to have a slice of my cake, (“Mmm! That’s good”, Pop said immediately.) we were in the midst of a discussion on what college my sister was going to attend.

“Where have you applied”, my Uncle asked her. He’s one of those bible thumping sorts now, but I remember when he was a drunk, getting into fist fights with my dad on the front lawn. I often find myself missing the drunk, as I’m much better at handling them than I am the “shove the bible down your throat” religious fanatics.

“I think I’m going to go to a small college close to home for a year, to get used to things. Then I’ll transfer to Charleston”, she replied.

“Charleston has one of the highest STD ratings of any college”, mom chimed in.

Puffing up, deep frown pulling his mustache down in a highly comical way, my Uncle glared at Leigha. “You know how to fight that, don’t you?!”

Leigha looked around the table, searching for help. So I gave it to her.

“Yeah”, I said, pumping my fist in the air, “wrap it uuuuuup!”

“NO”, he shouted. “Abstinence...”

“does not make the heart grow fonder”, I finished.

While he harrumphed and sputtered, everyone else laughed. Except for Papa, who ignored the whole exchange, rolling his dessert around in his mouth like a cow and staring past our heads at a western on the big screen.

Packed full of food and moaning miserably, the sexes separated. Tess and the older women attacked the kitchen, fixing up leftover plates for people to take home and washing dishes. The older men crashed in the living room and watched sports through slowly closing eyelids, while the younger ones congregated outside on the patio. Us younger women moved to the table in the sunroom and discussed mom and Ray’s coming nuptials and the possibility of another Charleston bachelorette weekend.

Then Papa summoned me from across the house, bellowing my name and sending the dogs into a barking fit. Lounging in his recliner, he informed me that I was in charge of the name drawing for Christmas again this year. “You got it, Pop”, I said happily. Nothing like being able to ensure your name goes to the person with the biggest spending problem.

I wrote down all the names, tore them into little strips of paper, folded them and dumped them in a Solo cup. Then, armed with a notepad and pen, I danced around the house and had everyone draw. I shoved Christine and Dave away from my notepad and ignored whispered pleas for cheating. There would be no cheating for anyone but me!

As I passed through the living room for the second time, finally finished with the list and very pleased with myself for getting a good name, Papa said, “And she didn’t even hear me!”

“What”, I said, turning in confusion. “What happened?”

“I paid you a compliment and you didn’t even hear me!”

“What did you say”, I asked.

“Nope...I’m not going to repeat myself”, he said, pouting.

I turned to my sister, determined to get an answer. Papa so very rarely compliments anyone on anything other than how well they cook. And when it comes to me, his loving insults are par for the course. “What’s that ugly green blob on your foot”, he asks me at least once a week, referring to my four leaf clover tattoo. Or, “Woo-wee! Where’d you get that new dress, Jackass?! Columbia Tent and Awning?”

“What did he say”, I asked her.

She smiled. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear him! He said he was proud of you, that you’ve been doing so good lately.”

“Well. I’ve been doing well”, I corrected automatically. “Well”, she repeated, rolling her eyes.

“Aww, Pop”, I said, grinning at him.

“Better keep it up”, he replied gruffly.

Feeling happy and tired, I checked on the kid then rejoined my cousins. Slowly everyone started to drift off – hauling hyper children out to their cars, toting high stacked plates, and distributing hugs. As I said goodbye to everyone, I realized that there’d been no fights at all. No arguments, no crying...not even any drinking. I wondered how much of that had to do with the absence of my father and how much of it had to do with how “well” I, the main instigator, was doing.

After making plans for Marie and Christine to pick me up, I kissed Papa goodbye and took the kid home to settle her for the night. We were going to make a beer and cigarette run into town, then meet Dooby and Dave on the dock.

It’s tradition. No matter how cold it is, the younger group always congregates on the dock or on the porch and drinks. We tell more stories, sing old songs (like a degenerate family Von Trapp), and watch the stars through puffs of smoke.

Out of all the traditions, it’s the one I look forward to the most. Not because we drink and talk about disgusting things, but because, unlike the family dinner, it’s not a requirement. No one says we have to spend that extra time together, but we always want to.

Marie, Christine and I spent the trip into town and back listening to old school rap music and dancing. Every now and then a deer would pop out of the tree lined darkness and we’d break, squealing and cursing, before going back to our dancing.

Back at Papa’s we walked, giggling through the yard and out to the dock. Huddling in deck chairs and clutching cold beers, we rolled our eyes when Dooby pointed out a streak across the night sky and started lecturing us on atoms or something. We mimicked him and argued that it was just a mark from a plane, sending him further and further into professor mode.

“How do you know all this stuff”, I asked him with exaggerated interest. “Did you study it, read it in a book somewhere?”

“I read books”, he said. “I know all kinds of things about science. I’ve...” He droned on and on, knowing I was poking fun, but too interested in hearing himself speak to let it deter him. Marie looked at me as if to say, “See? See what I have to deal with every day?”

Two hours crept by before we finally called it a night, hugged, and headed in opposite directions – Dooby, Marie, and Dave crept back into Papa’s, Christine drove back to the city, and I trudged up the steep hill back to my dark house.

I eased through the door, relishing the sudden heat on my frozen face and fingers, and went through my night time routine quickly. “One more month”, I thought as I finally crawled between the sheets, exhausted, “one more month and we’ll do it all over again.” The cooking, cleaning, decorating, shopping, working, parenting, and socializing...all repeated for both sides of the family.

I knew I should be thankful that the day went pretty smoothly, getting progressivly better and ending without any of the usual family drama. But all I could think before drifting off to sleep was, “I wasted all that money on Xanax and not one person got drunk and threw a punch. I hope Christmas kicks it up a notch.”

Online dating

I have this crazy idea that I’m positive no blogger has ever had before, because I’m just that original.


I’m going to join a dating website.

90% of this decision is based on the wealth of material that’s sure to crop up, 5% is based on the fact that I obviously can’t meet anyone anywhere else, and the other 5%...well; let’s just say that if I do it, The Grandmother has promised to stop harassing me about going to church to meet a “nice man”. One day, when she’s older, I’ll tell her about the nice man, the nice seminary student actually, that I met at church and played hide the holy relic with in the back of his jeep. He made the sign of the cross in all the right places. Our father, who art in heaven...how loud I screamed your name. Amen.

Seriously, I’ve been circling around this idea for awhile now. I’ve gone from being adamant that online dating is for losers, to being genuinely curious. It seems like everyone is doing it now. But, just in case anyone decides to make fun of me, I have a full proof plan that goes a little something like this: Bitch, I will Cut. You.

Now that that’s settled, I need to make another plan – a plan of action. This is where you guys come in. (That’s what she said.) I welcome any advice from those who’ve done the online dating gig before, and even advice from those that haven’t done it but think they know everything about everything anyway. (Yeah, you know who you are.)

I’m sure there are certain things that, for the sake of being fair, I need to include on my profile. They say that honesty is the best policy in general, but is the same true for online dating? For instance, when I tell them I’m the single mother of a kindergartener, do I go ahead and lay it all out there?

“When I was 18 I fucked my much older boss because I thought he was sexy, but it turns out that he wasn’t that sexy, he was just fertile. Now I have a five year old daughter that whines constantly and has an unhealthy fascination with her own vagina, which we actually call a “boo” because apparently “vagina” is not an appropriate word for a child. She also has a small problem with kleptomania that I’m addressing, as needed, by sneaking the things she takes back without anyone knowing in order to avoid embarrassment.”

Do I tell them outright that I live at home with my mother, her boyfriend, my teenage sister, two retarded cats, and a mastiff puppy that eats my underwear? Do they need to know the family dynamics?

“There won’t be any sex happening at my place, in case you were wondering, so I hope you live alone or have nice roommates. I generally can’t even masturbate in peace so sometimes, when I do get a little alone time, I get so excited that I injure myself and then I’m out of commission for a few days. So if I use the word “recuperating” in response to a request to hang out, that’s probably what’s going on and if you still want to get together, you shouldn’t expect anything more than a blowjob. And only if you really deserve it.


Furthermore, if you decide you want to be ‘old fashioned’ and pick me up from my house rather than meet me somewhere like a non-stalker, you will likely be subjected to a heated inquisition. My mother will ask you if you are gay, if you are aware that I may be gay and if you are - why it doesn’t bother you, if you are aware that my womb was once occupied (well, twice occupied, but I hope she’d leave that first one off knowing how some people feel about murder), and if you’ve heard of the private school she attended 27 years ago. However, there is no need to worry about my father as he lives 1200 miles away and only comes to town when there’s a bulk sale on cocaine. But should we eventually decide to get married (you never know, stranger things have happened), you should know that he will likely die before then from liver damage, so you’ll have to pay for the wedding on your own.”

As much as people say they want the whole truth and nothing but the truth, full disclosure can be a little daunting. There’s the issue of likes and dislikes.

Do I really tell them that I like to read books about vampire teenagers and make fun of fat kids on slip-n-slides? Do I tell them I hate most sports and am bored to tears by anything even remotely related to hunting, fishing, and the outdoors in general? Men around here are crazy about racecar driving. Do I tell them that I think watching a bunch of cars go round and round in a circle for over half the day is the most ridiculous hobby I’ve ever heard of in my life?

“Also, I dislike children. I plan on never having another child, so if you want any you’d better be ready to make it worth nine months of torture and be ready to hire a nanny. And the only way you could possibly make it worth it is with money. And handbags...I like handbags.”

I see online dating as a way of cutting through all the bullshit, a way for people to let you know who they really are before you come out the pocket for dinner and drinks. Or at least, that’s how it should be. I’m sure there are dirty liars and perverts on there. It’s the internet after all.

That brings us to profile pictures. I want to put up an attractive picture that makes people want to look at my profile, but wouldn’t that be false advertising?

There they see this decent looking blonde girl with fantastic fucking eye shadow (thankyouverymuch), but she doesn’t look like that except maybe half of the time. Sometimes she doesn’t put on makeup for a week and dude, she’s got some really dark under-eye circles. They take her home and nail her like Bob Villa on steroids, go to sleep, and wake up with Medusa. There’s mascara everywhere, hair stuck to the drool on her face, and her snoring could rival the noise from the chainsaw massacre.

Wouldn’t it be more prudent to put up a shitty picture? If they’re attracted to me then, imagine how much they’d like me when I fixed myself up! It would be like Extreme Makeover every other weekend.

But I guess all of that seems relatively easy compared to the issue of actually going on a date with someone. What if they put up a picture from years ago and instead of a 30 year old, I end up sitting across from some dude with a ventilator and a pair of false teeth? Do I stick it out and see if he’s got money? Has Anna Nicole been dead long enough to have a replacement?

Oh my god. What if I agree to meet with some guy and when I get there he turns out to be my mom’s ex boyfriend, Spongebob!

The longer I think about it, the more terrifying this situation becomes. I think I’ll get a taser, just in case. Is it legal to tase your date because he’s your mom’s ex boyfriend or because he smells funny?

So many questions!

I’m planning on setting up my profile tonight, so if you have any suggestions, warnings, or advice – come out with it now. Or, if after reading all of that you decide you just can’t live without me and there’s no need for me to look any further, tell me that too. But only if you’re loaded. I can’t support my crumb snatcher on love and sexy time, you know. Well, technically I could support her on sexy time, but my grandma would be really upset if I took up prostituting.

I must, I must, I must increase my bust!

I was going to write a short post thanking all the guys that participated in Penis Week, but I’d rather do a video. So I’m thinking I might enlist the services of my best friend and make it a little extra special. (And that is not a girl-on-girl reference.) It’s in the heterosexual works.

**********

I’ve always said that I’m glad my kid is a girl. I just didn’t think I could raise a boy. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think I could raise anything other than a penis or my hand...but here I am, doing it.

I took her shopping for fall clothes recently and was delighted to find that she and I have more in common than our freakishly long toes. We shop alike: Grab, try on, put back or keep, and get the fuck out. Fast, efficient, and leaving extra time for lunch.

There was only one exception: underwear.

My four year old decided she wanted a bra. Not a training bra, mind you, a REAL bra...with cups and adjustable straps. It took me about 15 minutes to get her away from those racks, sans bra and inappropriate panties, and hustle her, whining and pleading to the check out counter.

I told my mother about it when we got home.

“She wants a bra. Not a training bra with rainbows and butterflies all over it...a real one, with a matching set of bikini panties.”

"Are they made for her size?"

"Yes, the cups (air quotes) are flat, but"

She laughed. “Then why didn’t you get her one?”

“She’s four. Bras and bikini panties? Seriously?”

“Eh”, she said shrugging.

“I could be setting her up to be a....a....”

“A what? It’s no worse than the shit you used to wear.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t help me buy any of it!”

“Nope! And I’m not helping you with this one either!”


I got my first bra when I was six.

It was Fourth of July weekend and I was standing on my grandparent’s porch with my nine year old cousin, waving sparklers. She was making fun of me for not wearing a bra, pointing and laughing at my flat chest. This was the same she-devil that taught me about sex with a Barbie and Ken doll and how to steal the candy from our uncle’s army food packs.

The more she taunted me the angrier I got, until finally I took my sparkler and stabbed her in the hand with it. She ran off screaming and crying, eighties hair still visible over the bushes as she cut through the yard.

My Nana came out the side door, cigarette in one hand and the obligatory gin and tonic in the other. I didn’t know she'd been watching.

“What did ya do that for, dawlin?”

“She was making fun of me.”

She stood staring at me for a moment, blowing smoke out of her nose, before finally saying, "You come on with me.”

I was sure she was going to take the yard stick to my ass. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

She went into the spare bedroom, opened up the closet and started digging through a drawer. I stared at the lengthening ashes of the cigarette clamped between her bright pink lips. I remember thinking that if she dropped it, I had to step on it quick and make sure it was out. Because Papa always said, “Jackass, you make sure your Nana don’t burn this house down, ya hear?”

She finally found what she was looking for and turning around, held it up for me to see. It was a pale blue training bra with one of those sticky appliqués on the front of Strawberry Shortcake.

“This was ya cousin’s first training bra and now it’s yours.”

I didn’t want a hand-me-down training bra, but I knew better than to say that to Nana. She handed it over and told me to go to the bathroom and put it on.

The rest of the day she made sure to tell everyone that I was wearing that fucking bra. I was mortified. The only consolation was my cousin had a nice, red welt across her palm and was getting no sympathy. Training bra trumps sparkler burn.

My mom didn’t deal well with “girl issues”. It made her uncomfortable to talk about anything relating to underwear, boys, and especially periods. Nana used to say, “That woman just needs to touch herself, that’s all there is to it! Pain and simple.”

So Nana continued to buy my bras, panties, and other girl products as I grew up.When she passed away I was 12 and I started buying my own things.

My she-devil cousin was old enough to drive then and we would go to the mall with Papa’s credit card, buying whatever we wanted. My first run-in with Victoria’s Secret was on one such trip.

It was around my 13th birthday and I wanted something new and special to mark the occasion, but I wasn't sure what that was yet. She-devil marched into VS like she owned the place and started digging through the racks and bins. I was too busy gawking at all the leopard print and lace. Obviously this place had never heard of white cotton.

I finally started looking around, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had a strong dislike for women that measure you for bras (still do actually) and I didn’t want one of them feeling me up in the VS dressing room in front of the she-devil.

I was rummaging through a bin when I saw a sign I couldn’t ignore. Glancing furtively around, I made my way toward every teenage girl’s destiny: the padded bra.

I found love with an emerald green, satin Wonderbra that day. The padding in that sucker was un-fucking-believable.

I took it to the counter, paid, and immediately went to the dressing room to switch it out with my plain white “Virgin” screamer.

BAM! Insta-titties!

I was so fucking proud of those things. Until I got home.

I stowed my bags in my room, made myself something to drink, and settled on the couch with a book. A short time later, my dad and mom came home from wherever the hell they’d been. It couldn’t have been 60 seconds before....

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR CHEST?” My dad was gawking at me.

“What? What’s going on?” My mom peered around him and her mouth promptly fell open.

“Let me see what you bought today”, she said reluctantly.

“Papa said I could get whatever I wanted!”

She started to my room. “Just show me.”

My dad was still yapping to himself, trying to wrap his pea brain around what was going on. “Don’t know what’s wrong with...is that green....I don’t think....”

A bright, emerald green strap was poking out from underneath my tank top and I shoved it back.

My mom started digging through my things and pulled out the Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for tissue paper and a receipt. She read it and looked up at my dad standing in the doorway.

“It’s a MIRACLEbra”, she said with tears in her eyes, horrified. My dad looked at her, and then looked at my chest. Back and forth he went before finally bursting into laughter.

“MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE”, he howled.

My face was bright red. I snatched the bag from her hand and stomped out.

“Call him”, I heard my dad say.

“I WILL not”, my mom replied.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the speaker phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. I stood in the hall, horror struck.

“HELLO”, my Papa shouted into the phone. He always shouts.

“DAD! THERE’S BEEN A MIRACLE!”

“WHAT?”

“WE’VE HAD A MIRACLE AT 154 blank ROAD!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN BOUT, JIM?”

“YOUR GRANDAUGHTER BOUGHT A MIRACLE BRA WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD! SHE’S GOT 'ER BOOBIES PUSHED UP TO 'ER CHIN!”

Loud, obnoxious, old man laughter.

“AND IT’S BRIGHT GREEN!”

More laughter.

For the next several years I became known as “The Miracle at 154 blank Road”...all because my mother was too embarrassed to help me shop for underwear.

Now it’s mine and my daughter’s turn to go through these rituals. I guess I'm about to buy her first training bra. Weird. Hopefully I'll do alright with this girly, parenting stuff and not embarrass her too much. It's definitely not all sugar, spice and everything nice.

But it will probably be fine.

After all...I have no problem touching myself.