Happy Thanksgiving Chaos

By John Martin 

The next two days are going to feel like I am sitting in purgatory.  I am the Matriarch of a clan of misfits who are my family.  Yet I love them all.  They are on their way to my house as we speak.  You may find my tone somewhat harsh.  But then my family would make your family’s dysfunctional holiday behavior seem normal.  Here is how this evening will go.  Three of our children and their spouses and their nine children will show up at our door within minutes of one another.  They will struggle to bring their suitcases inside.  Once in the foyer they will begin fighting about who gets which bedroom. 

Our house is just large enough to house everyone.  My husband and I have a large house.  We purchased it for holiday visits for the entire family.  When our grandchildren grow up we are selling it.  But this is just the beginning of our Thanksgiving show. 

Two hours later my oldest son will show up with his new bride of two years.  My oldest son is fifty-eight.  Melanie, his new bride, is twenty-four.  That is twenty-four as of three days ago.  She will be the gasoline for the fire.  She will wear a low cut blouse.  Temperatures will be in the single digits.  Her breasts will be fighting just to stay inside that blouse.  Her pants will be so tight the seam in her crack will be stretched to full capacity.  The men will ogle her every chance they get.  She will eat up the attention.  But she will pretend not to notice them noticing her every move.  They will try to hide their stares.  But their wives will catch them.  That is when the arguments begin.  There will be mumblings under the breath.  There will be loud whispers coming from inside the bedrooms.  My smaller grandchildren will ask me, “Nina, why does your chest hang down and Melanie’s doesn’t?”  I will answer diplomatically that Melanie’s is newer, and leave it at that.  What I really would like to do is put them over my knee.  When I have finished with them, I would ask them why their little rear ends were red.  But they are just the innocents in all the drama.  So I leave it at that.

The women will hate her, but pretend to like her.  She will be clueless.  My son, her husband, will strut like peacock.  All of it will be painful to watch.  The men will try to show off for her—flag football, soccer, running—until one of them gets hurt.  Then I will put an end to the games and the showing off. 

“Someone’s knocking on my door.  I have to go.  Let the torture began.  Oh…I almost forgot.  Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!”