My Best Thanksgiving Ever: The Great Thanksgiving Drink-All-Day of 2005
It was Thanksgiving, and it was 2005. Commie Mom, a longtime third-grade teacher at 61st Street School in South Central LA, had put a table heaped with construction paper and poster paints and magic markers in the front yard. I made a construction paper Indian Princess headdress, because Indian Princess headdresses weren’t yet the most wicked, terrible cultural appropriations in the history of US America. With my Indian Princess headdress, I wore a bitchen Pilgrim apron and a slouchy white peasant blouse that showed off my awesome knockers. Everything was wonderful.
What made it even more wonderful was that my mama had put me in charge of the liquor, and I did a fuckin’ bang-up job. I went to the fanciest mega-liquor-store and bought dozens of tiny airplane bottles of every premium gin. We took teeny, careful, delicate sips, sort of like a gerbil on a water bottle, as we taste-tested all of them and found our favorites. Suparna the Rocket Scientist liked the Hendricks. I loved the Millers. My mom liked them all.
Sipping on tiny bottles of gin kept us the perfect amount of toasty all day — portion control! a gin IV! — so we were just buzzed enough that as we gathered by the hearth, my mom taught us her friend Joanne’s secret to making men have sex with you, and that was to wipe your fingers along your vag and then dab your pulse points with your smeg.
We all determined that we were going to try this the first chance we got.
My little brother, whose birthday was Thanksgiving Sunday, wouldn’t stop bitching about his car’s lack of (a) a headlight and (b) tags combined with his (c) three warrants and whining that he was sure he would get popped by the dastardly fuzz, which he succeeded in doing later that night. He got arrested and went to jail — on the Thursday of a four-day weekend no less — and we all laughed and laughed.
And that is the story of my best Thanksgiving ever, the end.