So, how weird is it to go from unmarried and already having two families to visit on the holidays, to married with three families to visit on the holidays?
For us, it was hell. I don’t often talk about that Thanksgiving because I don’t want to upset anyone, but my recent campaign with NickMom has inspired me to tell you all about my dysfunctional, rowdy families; The Workaholic’s completely normal family, and the tale of how we survived our first Thanksgiving weekend together. This graphic pretty well sums the whole decision making process up, but read ahead if you want to get a first-hand glimpse at why I’m just slightly off my rocker.
Luckily, that first holiday season that The Workaholic and I were together (just dating with visions of wedding bells dancing in our heads), we only had Styles tagging along with us. Even more fortunately, he’s the most laid back kid on the face of the planet. He was like, “There’s pie? I’m in!”
The thing is, my parents are divorced and The Workaholic had parents of his own to visit. I won’t even begin to tell you how lucky I feel that they are still married. I think I’d boycott all holidays if we had four families to please. I’m serious, y’all.
That first Thanksgiving, I had promised my mom that I would do Thanksgiving with her and my enormous, Lebanese Pseudo-Family.
The Workaholic had promised that we would do Thanksgiving with his quaint, quiet family.
We also had promised my Dad that we would drive 4 hours away to Tallahassee, Florida that Friday to celebrate a late Thanksgiving with my enormous, blood-related family.
Do you see where this is going?
Nobody wanted to join forces for one, enormous Thanksgiving feast so we had to shuttle our time around and make sure that we saved room for Thanksgiving #2 while we were stuffing our faces at Thanksgiving #1, all the while being conscious of the fact that we had to not be bloated for the Northcutt Family Solo Cup Reunion. You’ll understand this later.
That morning, we went to my Aunt Sue’s house and were met with a Thanksgiving buffet spread that would have fed the entire state of Rhode Island. I looked at The Workaholic and was like, “really? I have to save room for more?” I really liked his parents and wanted to be nice, so I did the best I could.
But seriously? Look at all that food. I dare you not to sample all of it.
My Pseudo-family is loud, obnoxious, we love food, we know no volume, and we love to eat. Half of us are rednecks. I am not one of them. Though my duck-hunting cousins love my infamous duck face.
The Workaholic and I had been together long enough for him to know that I love to eat, and he found out that Thanksgiving, that my family makes these delicious, but totally non-traditional Thanksgiving dishes. Thank goodness he loves to eat as much as I do, but damn the testosterone and genes that keep him slim. I think he fell in love with me just a little bit more that afternoon. Or maybe that glow is because he’s wearing a wool sweater in Florida in November. That’s like putting a snowman on the stove. Thanksgiving in Florida means tank tops and shorts, not wool Argyle sweaters. Don’t forget this sweater, y’all.
Once everyone was done stuffing their stomachs full of Thanksgiving deliciousness, the Dessert Train started to come through. When I say Dessert Train, I mean a long line of Jonses and Raads skipping from the house, to the sunny Florida deck wielding enough sugar to create their own white, sandy beach.
That’s when ish got real. Don’t keep me from my sugar.
Needless to say, we showed up at The Workaholic’s family’s house lookin’ like The Michelin Man and Gumby. I was the Michelin Man, if you haven’t figured that out yet.
We totally did the dine and dash and hauled ass to Thanksgiving #2 where we were, of course, fashionably late. Lovely.
So, let’s just take a breather from all this eating real quick, and let me set the stage for you: The Workaholic is 18. He brings home this 25 year old single mom. How would you, as his mom feel? Let’s take it a little further and say the relationship seems to be becoming more and more serious, and this older woman completely dominates Thanksgiving. Now how would you feel?
So as soon as we got to The Workaholic’s parent’s house, we sat down to eat again. This is when an eating disorder on the opposite end of the spectrum from gluttony would come in handy.
We chit chatted. I got “the look” from The Workaholic for being too loud. We ate. We nearly put ourselves into food comas. I purposefully left out the photo of me drinking coffee with a 5 month old food baby resting in my stomach.
I forgot to document the Davis Thanksgiving feast, but I did capture images of a few of the Davises doing what most respectable Americans do after gorging themselves on Turkey:
But you see, I’m not a sleeper. I think sleeping during the day is a waste of daylight and I’m just the biggest troll when I wake up from a nap. That means that I also do not think that my significant other should ever be allowed to take a nap. Ever. Even when he has just eaten his weight in Turkey and stuffing.
We really brought new meaning to “Stuffing the Turkey” that Thanksgiving.
So The Workaholic did what any good, obedient future husband would do. (Look at the gut on that skinnyman!) He took off his hot-ass sweater and played baseball until he passed out in the grass.
Thanksgiving #2 was normal. Traditional. Nice.
Now on to Thanksgiving #3.
Thanksgiving is traditionally my dad’s family’s holiday, and generally celebrated the Saturday following Thanksgiving. The Northcutt Patriarchs sacrifice Christmas to have the entire Northcutt crew all in the same house, at the same time; drinking wine, whiskey, tequila, and water from red Solo cups with our names emblazoned on the sides.
God forbid you lose the your freaking Solo cup. If that happens, you find yourself drinking directly out of the tap or from the bottle, which I may or may not have done regardless.
The minute you walk in the door, a Solo cup is handed to you with your name on it. This is the first time The Workaholic is meeting much of my extended family, OK? Every time he meets a new cousin, they tell him how important is that he hang on to his Solo cup lest he dehydrate. The poor boy was terrified. I don’t recall an instant where he didn’t have the cup planted firmly in his hand.
Aside from the traditional Solo cup insanity, this year in particular was especially interesting.
My dad was freshly married to a woman that I lovingly refer to as Satan. She was the prude of all prudes and the witch of all witches.
The Northcutt family has little room for prudes. Some of us are more prudish than others. Some of us have no filters whatsoever. I won’t make you guess which group I belong to.
That year, we had an asparagus casserole. I love asparagus.
I also find what it does to my urine richly satisfying.
I said something to the effect of, “MMMMMMMM! Asparagus! I Can’t wait to smell it later!” which opened the floodgates to a discussion about who in the family carried the protein that makes your urine smell like skunk immediately after eating it. Even my grandparents were in on this conversation. But Satan sat in her chair, aghast that we would be talking about such a subject whilst eating. Then like a hungry rattlesnake, she attacked.
It was my fault for starting the disgusting conversation after all.
My greatest moment of triumph was when my Mamom just kept talking about asparagus pee.
Just a little dirty dinner talk, you know.
Don’t forget, this is all happening during The Workaholic’s first Thanksgiving(s) with my families.
I’m still not sure why he married me after all that. I guess the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach.
At least now you all know why I am the way I am, and hopefully you’ve all realized that The Workaholic is the one of us that came from a completely normal, sane family.
Though I’m bound and determined to bring the dysfunction.
You totally don’t have to hook up with someone dysfunctional to make yourself feel normal. Just visit NickMom.com for their tales of hilarity. There’s nothing like reading about other people’s mishaps to realize that you and your loud ass Solo cup drinkin’ family are completely, well . . . maybe not completely . . . more like mostly . . . normal.