My Worse Thanksgiving EVER

My Worse Thanksgiving EVER

Next week, I’ll be traveling up to Pennsylvania to retrieve my other half and bring him down in his car to spend the winter at MY house in Lauderdale. He’s a nick picking SOB, but our history goes way back, and morally I can’t leave my seventy eight year old boi up there to deal with a brutal winter when he faces a potentially fatal cardiac condition.

See, I do have a heart.

Meanwhile, last night I dropped my buddy Frank off at Fort Lauderdale airport for a flight to New York to visit his three-hundred-thousand-dollars-a-year Wall Street trader son for the holiday.

Bottom line, I expected to be alone for Thanksgiving, content with the prospect of sharing my Marie Callender Thanksgiving microwave dinner with my three doggies when my neighbor invited me to join her and her mother for a holiday feast at one of Lauderdale’s upscale restaurants.

“I gotta warn you,” cautioned Hope, who’s still a sexy chick at an age when most women are content to fantasize about their gay hairdressers. “She’s a bitch.”

To which I replied, “We’ll compare notes, then. You don’t know a bitch unless you met my mother.”

Want proof? How about the very worse Thanksgiving in my fucked up life?

When my parents were still alive, Thanksgiving was at least a tolerable holiday. In the days of my youth, we would host the big holiday feast for the rest of our family of freeloaders, but once my folks moved to a retirement community in Toms River, New Jersey, and my sister and brother-in-law moved to Long Island, it was just Dad, Mom and me, either at their place or a restaurant where I’d treat them as the good son.

Now, my father was a quiet, unassuming kinda guy, my mother a psychotic bitch, and when he dropped dead just shy of his seventy-fifth birthday, I was bequeathed the distinct honor of dealing with Mommie Dearest undiluted.

One Thanksgiving, in my feeble attempt to keep the family together, I drove all the way to extreme northwest New Jersey where mother, without consulting either my sister or I, had moved to after my father’s death, and brought her to spend the night with me on Staten Island where I both lived and worked. In holiday traffic, NJ and SI might as well have been the North Pole and South Pole. The plan was for us to drive over the following morning – Thanksgiving Day – to my sister’s on Long Island, another marathon on the Long Island Expressway.

Yea, I know, I’m a masochist, and not just with sex.

But when my mother saw some light snow falling that holiday morning, she refused to budge, and my frustration in seeing my carefully orchestrated holiday plans go down the sewer reached the point of no return, and in a sudden fit of rage, I knocked this then seventy something woman to the floor.

She pretended in typical “I’m gonna make you feel real guilty, boy” Mom style to be injured – she wasn’t – and all I thought was how I, a senior health care executive, was going to be charged with elder abuse of his own mother. We later buried the hatchets and spent Thanksgiving as the old lady and her fag son in a local diner.

This year, I have more to look forward to than just stuffing myself with needless calories. My new fuck buddy, a hot hairy Latin from Miami is coming up Thanksgiving night to spend some time, and on Friday we plan to hit the leather shops in Wilton Manors where he hopes to buy a leather jockstrap, you know the kind, with your junk hanging out a hole in the front. And, to sweeten the deal, one of the shops is running a Black Friday sale – twenty five percent off.

Ain’t capitalism wonderful?

Have a good one, guys. Talk to you Monday.