Firepit Ashes, Shattered Wine Glasses and Hungover Asses

Hard alcohol and crusty casserole dishes await a major clean-up.

We over-killed the turkey. Finished every single bottle of red wine in the house. Tipped it back until we couldn’t speak without slurring. One of us even jumped over the blazing fire pit and next wiped out on my son’s BMX bike, lifting a bloodied nail from its tender bed of skin in the first of many hilarious and tragic drunken collapses.

A stop sign red push-up bra lay strewn across my bedroom floor, just feet away from a stack of quarters and pennies the children emptied from their piggy banks when I wasn’t looking. My bearded cousin, who finished off a bottle of strawberry schnapps after many, many glasses of wine, is gelling deeper and deeper into my couch, surrounded by kids who are curious about his unusually inanimate state.

My husband just scampered down from our son's top bunk, where he slept last night. On his descent from twisted Superman sheets-ville, he opted not to use the bunk bed ladder and in the clumsy process stepped on our boys' bookcase and toppled the entire unit. I think he's nursing his swelling knee wound in the bathroom right now.


The kids are looking as tired and haggardly as their parental units.

Ashes are still smoldering in our back yard fire pit. Empty plastic beer cups litter the driveway. Sticky, graham cracker crust crumble speckled pie pans shine in the morning sun alongside turkey grease splattered super hip square shaped dinnerware and congealed left out overnight peppery spinach dip. These are the leftover artifacts of our drunken Thanksgiving indulgence.

Thankfully one red-haired adult remained sober enough to care for the six tucked away in bed children between us in case of emergency, and he was the only one of all of us to know all the words to the Cypress Hill song “Hits From the Bong.” Scary. Also scary that he kept playing the song over and over while practically pressing his ear to the speakers. He even broke out some 80s break dancing. None of us were young enough to get crunk wit’ it. Sadly, there was a debate over whether the word is “crump” or “crunk.” That argument in and of itself is proof that we are all getting very, very old.


The aftermath of much sugar-fueled over-play in the playroom. Still not cleaned up.

I can’t seem to erase the acerbic cinnamon-y aftertaste of cloves from my stale tongue this morning. My eggnog spiked morning coffee IV drip isn’t helping on that end either. Hopefully the ibuprofen will kick in soon and buffer this damned hangover.

To follow up on my Turkey Trot post, yes I did run the 5K. And yes I did reach my shallow goal: to beat my brother-in-law. Insert maniacal victory laugh here. He finished a whopping three minutes behind me. I finished three miles in 27 minutes. Not exactly a time worth bragging about but not chopped turkey liver either.


The firepit, which my cousin leaped like a drunken cheetah.

Next year I plan to run the 6-mile 10K race and kick his ass again. Immaturely, it gives me exquisite pleasure to hand him his ass on a Thanksgiving platter. Let the training and trash talkin’ begin. Me and you, Mark. Me and you. Seriously, I booked it hard and really enjoyed pushing myself to the limit. My super in-shape cousin ran the 10K and met her goal too. We are a couple of proud, sore ladies today.

These are my cloudy, fleeting hung over observations, the morning after an indulgent, very close and never annoying family and friend enhanced Thanksgiving saturated fat, unrefined sugar and carbohydrate overdose banquet.

Does your head hurt this morning too?

As for me, I think that being hung over the morning after Thanksgiving is as American as fist shoving corn, hard squares of stale bread and diced giblets up the ass of a dead, hormone bloated decapitated turkey. Cheers.

I hope you have just as much gorgeous chaos to be thankful for this year.

Ps. We were supposed to gay bar hop tonight with a posse o' friends but we're still fighting the effects of our sins last night. Also, my cousins and I have to pack for our camping/hiking excursion to the highest peak on Santa Catalina Island. Our boat leaves bright and early tomorrow. We're heading 26 miles off the coast of Long Beach for a no doubt very memorable adventure. Where's my Dramamine?