EMMETT: Good Gravy

What is it about eating our weight in stuffing and candied yams that brings out the worst? We’re definitely not hungry and tryptophan in turkey makes you sleepy, not neurotic. Thanksgiving tends to mark the beginning of an untamable whirlwind of holiday madness and family hysterics. Like being strapped to a wooden rollercoaster, we’re chugged along to each mandatory mealtime trying not to scream. Or vomit. At best, there’s a chilled glass of Martinelli’s at the end. Not to mention the Thanksgiving hangover that leaves you feeling five months pregnant. Every year, we’re guaranteed school off only to be marooned on an island of familial obligations and grocery shopping.

I like to imagine the first Thanksgiving, when settlers and Native Americans strapped on their colonial food bags, in a new light. If it were anything like a modern day one, the celebration would have gone a little differently.

Instead of a three-day feast, their meal would be a twelve minutes clash of the in-laws talking about someone else’s divorce. Harvesting and singing would be replaced by Uncle Squanto’s yelling as he sat, pants unzipped, staring at the Cowboys game in HD. Grandpa, affectionately known as “Dances-with-gambling-addiction,” would serve the much-anticipated Wampanoag Wheat Beer to grandma who was beginning to get inappropriate. Instead of chowing down on deer bits, the first Thanksgiving-goers would fill up on processed meat and thawed veggies. The only “offering” would be to clear the table and it would be a half-hearted one. An awkward silence might dawn over the group when Mary Adams presented her new boyfriend, Tecumseh, to her fellow settlers. He was more “local” than expected. Some cousin would tweet about the proceedings “What am I thankful for? Kickin’ it on the Mayflower and meeting the local ladies #goingnative.’”
As with all family gatherings, there would be a fight leading to generations of bloodshed. And someone’s china platter would never get returned.

Maybe it’s the roots of this holiday that cause tension today. A bunch of white men took a breather from pillaging a civilization to nom with the locals. In the name of gravy, they feigned friendship to feast over “Columbus clam chowder.” As we all know, things didn’t pan out.

It’s not all bad. Luckily, as an American staple, we’ve contrived the concept of “left-overs”: a 72-hour excuse to prolong the insatiable spread in front of us. Unfortunately, we haven’t dropped all charges against the act of ordering a turkey-stuffing-cranberry medley in July. It’s not gross if you make it into a sandwich. Maybe we should take a hint from Hanukkah. Eight days of food broken up by the sporadic Maccabee story. I’m a quarter Jewish so we would take the Sephardic track and hightail it out of the family festival of lights after a few hours. In a perfect world, we would light a Thanksgiving menorah for eight days, listen to Christmas music for half that, and be required to talk to extended family for zero of it.

Like clockwork, that final Thursday in November, radio DJs put on “Bublé Christmas,” leave their stations, and don’t come back until mid-January. I don’t dislike Christmas music; I just get worn-out listening to Leon Redbone attempt to get a young girl to put out. She said no and offering a stingy “half a drink more” isn’t convincing. It’s also hard to pre-game when your options are “The Christmas Shoes” and any rendition by Ruben Studdard.

Another phenomenon that happens around this time of year is the inevitable Holiday Burglar. Instead of stealing, it comes at night and heaves it’s holiday decorations onto the lawns, windows, and roofs of unassuming neighbors. Their light-spectacle mayhem is simultaneously reducing your property value and making your one-wreath sideshow look sad. As history serves, the longevity of holiday decorations is astounding. Their pumpkins may have lasted longer than your first boyfriend, but at least he didn’t stick around to get eaten by neighborhood rodents.

When the final family members have packed themselves and their TJ Maxx boxes into the van, rest assured that you’ve survived another holiday season. It’s the less talked about calm after the storm. You can take down the LED lights that were beginning to burn holes in your retina and think about what you’re going to re-gift. Unclench your fists and ignore the staggering weight you’ve packed on.

The only hurdle left is New Years: a night of high expectations and lowered inhibitions. Where will you be? Miami? New York? A really long line somewhere in a really short dress? Probably. Either way, it’s always the same pressing question: who the hell can I trick into kissing me?