Veggies chopped? Check. Cheese shredded? Check. Bundt and cupcakes baked? Potatoes peeled? Turkey thawed? Check, check, and check? Why are you thawing your turkey so early, Mrs. Hyde? Three words: it's not mine. Not only do I have to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for my own household, including cakes and pies
and make not one, but two banana puddings for my mother-in-law, but I also have to roast a turkey, bake stuffing (well, technically it's dressing since I'm not putting it inside the turkey), and make a Strawberry Shortcake for my sister. My baby sister claims she can't cook, so every year I make extra stuffing, cakes and sometimes pies for her household as well. I'm pretty sure it's a rouse because her kids don't starve the rest of the year. Mysteriously around Thanksgiving, though, she can't seem to remember what that big white thing in the kitchen is for. I love her anyway. Who cares if my eyes are bloodshot and I have the worst migraine I've had in months?
Speaking of turkey, it's time to fulfill the conditions of the Shiny Turkey Award I received from
Jumble Mash. To review, I need to tell a story of food, cooking/baking, intoxication, and/or the holidays. If I had a story that encompassed all those subjects, that would be freakin' awesome. But I don't. I have an assload of falling down drunk stories (about myself and others) and I will tell you one of those right now.
About three years ago (or maybe more. Who knows? I've killed many brain cells in that time), my husband took me out to celebrate my birthday. He'd asked a few of our (read: his) friends to join us in the celebration. Keep in mind that I had just recently gotten my 'drinking legs' as I like to say. The night was set for excitement and fun. First, we went out to one of those hibachi style restaurants where they grill the food in front of you. Having known that we were going out to eat, I hadn't eaten much that day. Wish I had remembered that before I ordered a Zombie. And then another.
Some other woman at a different table was also celebrating her birthday, so when they started singing that lame ass song to her, I chimed in. Really. Loudly. And before you ask, no, I didn't know the words. I clapped, I waved somebody's cigarette lighter in the air. The brain cells that remembered her name are dead now, so let's just call her Becky. At first Becky was laughing along and cheering me on. Apparently, she'd had a zombie without having first eaten, too. Then you could tell she was a little annoyed because I wouldn't shut the hell up. I knew she was annoyed. I didn't give a fuck. Once hubby managed to settle me down, I told him he just had a stick up his ass because his best friend (also celebrating with us) had fucked more women at our table than he had. That went over well, needless to say. I didn't give a fuck.
Then we went to the Policeman's Lounge, where cops can go and morph into alcoholics for next to nothing. I consumed even more drinks and got into an argument with a cop. Hey! Not my fault; he was a prick. He was hitting on my friend, who has the equivalent of two black girl asses, and she wasn't interested. Being the awesome friend that I was, I told him to back the fuck off my woman before I kicked his ass. At first he found it amusing, but of course I took it too far. I proceeded to tell him that my girlfriend didn't want him because he had a little dick. But not only did he have a small pecker, but that it was so small that
my dick was bigger than his. He didn't particularly like that, so he argued with me until my big black husband rolled up behind him after which he promptly shut the fuck up. And I called him a punk bitch as he walked away. We had to leave the policeman's lounge.
You think this story is over, don't you? Wrong. After we
got kicked out of the lounge left the lounge willingly, dutiful hubby wanted to make sure everyone got home safely. I was looking a little green around the gills by then, so he dropped me off at home and followed our friends home. He carried me up the stairs and I told him I needed to use the bathroom and I was perfectly capable of going by myself. He made sure I made it to the toilet and asked me if I was okay.
"I'm fine," I assured him. "Make sure our friends get home." He left me in the bathroom. About 30 minutes later, I awaken to a knock on the bathroom door.
"Are you okay?"
"I said I'm fine. Go take them home so you can hurry back."
"Sweetie, I've already gone and come back. Are you still on the toilet?"
Yes, I was asleep on the toilet. I say he came back 30 minutes later, but for all I know, it was three hours. He could have sexed one bitch six ways from Sunday or six bitches one way from Sunday and I would have been none the wiser. I opened my mouth to answer him and out came everything I'd ever eaten in my life. Good thing the bathtub is right next to the toilet. I was sick for three days after that.
That's my story of intoxication and holidays, if you count my birthday as one.
Note: While all of this did happen, it did not occur on the same night. I have condensed three stories for your enjoyment. You're welcome.
