A Jewrotica Thanksgiving
Written by Karalyn Dane. For more holiday fun, check out Karalyn’s 10 Commandments of Thanksgiving.
I brought Mike home for Thanksgiving. I figured, he had to meet my family at some point, and better Thanksgiving than Passover or Rosh Hashana. At least this way I could spare him all the embarrassing family melodies and crazy Jewish holiday shtick. Certain holidays, I think, should only be introduced to a partner in all their glory once you are already married and there’s no going back. Unless, of course, his family’s traditions are worse.
Mike was excited to see the house that I grew up in and meet my siblings, my parents, my aunts and uncles and cousins, all who he had heard about in varying degrees over our now 9-month-long relationship. Mike had only just moved in with me, a point I really didn’t want to bring up over Turkey and Stuffing. I was hoping we could keep that part under wraps.
I grew up in a New England suburb, just outside Boston. My family is by no means normal (I mean, whose is?) but I knew that the only way I would be able to get through the night was with alcohol by my side, and lots of it.
We rang the doorbell and were greeted by my dad, who shook Mike’s hand politely and then asked the inevitable, “so what do you do?”
As Mike started talking about his Phd in philosophy, I took a deep breath and excused myself. It was time for glass of wine number one, which I downed in its entirety in the kitchen. After planting a kiss on my mom’s cheek, I immediately poured myself a second glass, and one for Mike.
I returned back to the hallway where Mike and my father were still talking by the stairwell and handed Mike a glass. He grinned and winked at me. I blushed, and his wink took the hint, following the trail of alcohol in my bloodstream and planting itself firmly in my unmentionable zones. This of course meant I had to pinch his ass as inconspicuously as possible as I leaned over and whispered in his ear that I’d be helping out in the kitchen.
By the time we sat down for Turkey Dinner I was on my fourth glass of wine. I could see my face reflected in my wineglass, it was as flushed as the color of my hair: red. Mike actually seemed to be having fun. He was charming, funny, cute, and he reminded me all night why I was now living with him. But I have a naughty streak and I couldn’t help but try to trip him up.
At some point I dripped some cranberry sauce on my black sparkly sweater. When Mike noticed and told me in my ear, I quickly wiped it off and very seductively sucked on my finger, my eyes challenging his. He responded by sliding his hand under the table and up my thigh, causing my miniskirt to ride up and give him some interesting access.
I enjoyed the sensation of his warm hand climbing up my inner thigh, but before he could get too close I got up to help clear. I sashayed across the room in a way only a drunk person probably thinks is sexy, and made sure to bend over in all sorts of interesting ways as I cleared, catching his eyes and smiling every time.
After pumpkin pie and whipped cream, brandy soaked cherries and rum cake, birkat hamazon and a round of “what are you thankful for this year,” it was time for everyone to go home. I helped clean up and then passed out on the living room couch.
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Dear Jewrotica
Confess
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