Michelle’s holiday guest entry
Dear Squishy Readers,
I am a Thanksgiving orphan.
The last time I went home for Thanksgiving was my freshman year of college. That’s when my parents stopped gracing me with an invite. It could have been due to my colorful language when saying grace or the fact that I spiked my stepfather’s Kool-Aid with vodka. Who knows? Since then, it’s been a combination of microwaved turkey pot pies, restaurant buffets, and McDonald’s Happy Meals (cool toys, yo).
Well, good news, kids. It’s been five years since I was left on Turkey Day’s proverbial doorstep, but, goshdarnit…I’ve been adopted. You can send your congrats to Eric Peterson and Pamela Ribon, proud parents of a bouncing baby me. They heard of my pathetic homeless person holiday plans and would hear no more of it. They insisted, no…they demanded that I join them in Houston for the Ribon Sweet Potato Extravaganza. I humbly protested, not wanting to be the outsider barging in on longstanding family traditions. Who am I to eat another family’s yams? Who am I to construct the Eiffel Tower out of mashed potatoes at another family’s table? However, I was overruled and now, for the first year in five years, I have somewhere to go on Thanksgiving.
Last year, I had a horrible Thanksgiving. I was still new to Austin and didn’t really feel comfortable with where to even spend the day outside of my apartment…so I went to work (yeah, I know). I had some things to finish up and I really just wanted the day to be over. I drove down there, parked my car in the empty parking garage, and went over to the building. The doors were locked and, for some reason, my security card didn’t work. I felt like a woman defeated. I was even being rejected by my job. In a moment of ire, I got into my car and peeled out of the garage. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice the concrete pillar behind my vehicle and I crashed my car. I believe it was written up on the police report as women crashes into her own pathetic life. Okay, so there wasn’t a police report. My car is really fine minus the dent which just serves as a reminder as to why you shouldn’t work on holidays. If you go into the parking garage, though, you can still see the red paint on the concrete (wasn’t that a film in driver’s ed.?). However, that wasn’t the worst of Thanksgiving ’99. I stopped at Blockbuster on the way home to fuel the rest of my fun-filled evening. I get back to my apartment, order a pizza, and pop a tape into the VCR. Nothing happens. I take the tape out, I blow on it (it works, people), I blow in the VCR (why not?), I pray to Allah, and I put the tape back in. Nothing. My VCR is broken. Did I mention it was a TV/VCR? Yeah, it was. Oh, thank you, Shitty Thanksgiving Fairy From Hell. After that, I washed some valium down with gin and woke up a few days later.
Fast forward one year…
I am going to Pam’s parents for Thanksgiving! I haven’t seen Pam and Eric since they left on Halloween. Honestly, I have only known Pam and Eric for about six months. We’ve only really hung out for about the last four months. I only really started liking Eric the last month and a half. Just kidding. I am very excited about the impending reunion tomorrow. I can’t wait. I have family to spend Thanksgiving with. I’ll join in. I’ll laugh at their jokes. I’ll fight with them. I’ll eat plenty of their food. It’ll take ten hours to get there through the traffic but it will seem like only nine and a half because I’ll have visions of p and e dancing in my head. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight. It’s kind of like the night before Christmas or the night before the first day of school. It’s the Ribon Sweet Potato Extravaganza Eve, folks…and I’m on the list. Thanks, Pam.
Michelle May Biloon
P.S. I’m bringing the black olives.