Not too long ago I wrote a little story about how my 13th birthday sucked a big high hard one – remember? Well, guess what…the 31st was A LOT better. However, just like the 13th celebration, there was a little bit of sh*t involved in this one too. So, gather around children while I twist out this here not so tall tale.
Lindsay and I arrived at my grandmother’s house around 4:00 in the PM on Saturday, November 26th for yet another Family Holiday/Birthday Celebration. As a child/victim of divorce we are forced to have multiple holiday feasts, which are fantastic for socializing but wreak havoc on the waistline. And, it seems a bit pointless sense all family members are at all of the parties. Upon arriving at Nanny’s crib Lindsay and I find out that we’ll be in charge of cooking the two beef tenderloins that were purchased for the occasion. Any cook worth their weight in salt will tell you that the first thing you need is alcohol. I immediately started in on the bourbons and ginger ale, and I poured Lindsay her usual glass of Pinot Grigio. I think I put back about 3 stiff ones (please make a gay joke at my expense) while roasting the tenderloin and I was “loose.” We were socializing, cooking, gossiping, and enjoying the entire family. We kept on boozing through dinner and finally slowed down for dessert. I mean, I could enjoy a cheesecake soaked in bourbon but it’d make the family suspicious of my recreational drinking habits. Lindsay’s cheesecake was tasty. It was the bestest birthday cake anyone has ever made for me. A close second was the pound cake my Dad made the previous evening – there’s a picture of that here.
We finished dessert and I was giving Lindsay a tour of Nanny’s house, which mainly consisted of me pointing out pictures of my formerly fat self. The conversations went like this: “Oh my God Jay, I can’t believe you were THAT fat in middle school. No wonder high school was rough” and “Haha, no wonder you were a virgin until you were 22,” and “When did you finally get to see your penis without the help of floor mirrors?” We made our way into the family room so I could show Lindsay a photo of my mom and Jack Nicklaus. Who wouldn’t want to show off a photo of the Golden Bear? Suddenly I felt something on the bottom of my shoe. I took a step back and realized I was making tracks on the floor. It’s just like a baby to spit up on the floor or leave some sort of gooey substance on the floor for an adult to step in, and thinking that I had just tracked a half eaten fruit bar across the floor, I reached down to give my shoe a healthy sniff. Hindsight being 20-20 I know now what a mistake I made. I took a deep, lung-filling smell and that’s when I realize that that fruit bar was a lump of dog sh*t that had been firmly pressed into the carpet and my shoe. It was also around the time when my cheesecake started to come racing back up my esophagus. I think I yelled, “It’s dog sh*t! Motherf*cker!” And then I Usain Bolted to the bathroom where I coughed up piece of the bestest birthday cake ever.
Needless to say, when you yell, “Dog sh*t!” indoors it naturally raises an eyebrow and with my family it kick starts a festival of laughs that spread like a wildfire. Everyone ran towards the den, briefly pausing to laugh at me in the bathroom as they made their way to the crime scene. “Oh my god, it smells so bad,” “Which dog did it,” “Get the stain remover” were all things I heard. However, I did not hear anyone ask, “Is Jay alright?” Meanwhile, I was cracking a rib trying to fumigate my lungs of the rancid, digested horse lips that were stuck to my shoe and olfactory senses.
I love my family very much. We’re a fun bunch of weirdos that find joy in one of our own stepping in animal feces. We joke about it and build upon that joke and make it more dramatic and humorous than it actually was. In an odd way, that pile of dog poop was the best dish brought to the party. Memories of turkeys, dressings, mashed potatoes and gravy will melt together and it will be hard to tell what Thanksgiving they belong to, but we’ll always remember that pile of dog sh*t. I hope everyone’s holiday was as shitty (get it?) as mine.