Carly Landon | Friday, December 4, 2009
Who doesn’t love going home for Thanksgiving? There’s the food, the friends, the family, the anticipation of the Christmas season. Most of all there are the stories.
I mark each Thanksgiving by a memorable event. There is the Thanksgiving where my cousin hid our Grandma’s famous pie, and all my aunts went into hysteria looking for it, blaming each of the individual children and then threatening to cancel all dessert.
Or the Thanksgiving where my sister brought home a boyfriend and preceded to break up with him on the flight back to school. I guess he didn’t make the cut.
There was the year my family almost got kicked out of Cowboys Stadium for being too rowdy and inciting a possible riot (though we often leave out our involvement in event).
This year marked a whole new form of crazy.
The first change I found at home was in my older sister. Before I left for school she traded in her boyfriend for a dog. Now she has developed a sort of obsession with the animal, spending lots of money on toys, grooming and classes.
Yes, since you were wondering, the dog even has a graduation photo from obedience training. My older sister values the intelligence of the dog so highly that she believes her dog is trying to talk. I, on the other hand, believe the wheezing notices she makes do not indicate her ability to communicate but rather a canine form of asthma.
Once the extended family arrived so did the alcohol. My uncle’s friend Jack, my cousin’s buddy Tito, dad brought the most sophisticated man in the world, all the gang came.
Usually with my family, the best stories begin when the bottles are opened. This weekend was no exception.
Two of my uncles refused to leave each other’s sides, telling everyone they were in a bromance. When my aunt told her husband they were leaving, my other uncle said, “I call shotgun,” thinking that since they were bros, he could go too.
One of my other uncles attempted to scare one of my guy friends away by first waltzing with him when he arrived and then violating his personal space while telling jokes.
Later in the night, the men of the family, presumably after too many drinks, decided they needed to do something manly in order to make up for their earlier shenanigans. So they fixed one of the toilets. One problem: It wasn’t broken. Until they started messing with it.
This week my mom has had the esteemed privilege of dealing with the repercussions of their efforts. One toilet later, we can conclude it was a good Thanksgiving.