Turkey Jerkey in Open Diary 2001-2018 (Pre-Prosebox)

Just had the most splendid Thanksgiving weekend, and now it’s over and I’ve got the Post-Turkey-Day Blues. Doesn’t help much that I just ate a gigantic, overflowing plate of leftovers, including two pieces of pie! Eek! It’s a damn shame that I have so much excess. I still have a full fridge. And I’ve been giving in to temptation all weekend long.

Speaking of temptation, I’m supposed to be doing homework, but I’m kinda feeling the need to write an entry instead. I know I’ll pay for it later, but I’m lonely right now. I’ve already had a mini crying jag over some arbitrary shit today, and I just want to document the weekend while it’s still as fresh as the leftovers in the fridge.

The festivities were an absolute blast, once I reminded myself to calm down and enjoy myself. No sense in getting all stressed over stupid stuff, especially when I had mom and Best Bud there. Either of them could pull a party off without even batting an eyelash, and they were both simply wonderful. The guys were great too. I honestly had a lot more fun than I imagined I would.

Mom and Dad showed up on Wednesday, right after the grocery store escapades. Good gawd, it was a mob….even at 3:30 in the afternoon. I didn’t get out of there until well after 5, and then didn’t get all of the $300 worth of groceries into my 7th floor apartment until well after 6! Luckily, I found a decent parking spot close to the front door.

The Parentals were champs. The whole time. Even when I dragged their exhausted asses to the liquor store to get all the booze (how’s that for waiting until the last moment?)…and they don’t even drink. Champs. Even when I had to leave them to most of the kitchen prep duty because I had to head out to the airport…late, because Best Bud and her hubby missed their flight and Dr. P. decided to show up even later. Yes, champs. Even when the party got going and they had to be subjected to insane conversations and f-bombs and Jen making blatant moves on Secret Agent Guy in front of everyone.

I know I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it until the end of time: I love them dearly.

As expected, Best Bud was in rare form. A spaz. But I suppose you could say the same of me. The first thing that happened when I went to pick them up at the airport was a major faux pas on my part. She and Rob (her husband) had handed me all their stuff to watch while they picked up their checked luggage, and BB’s phone rang. It was one of her many LOVERS…but I didn’t recognize the name. I swear to you, for some reason I thought it was someone calling about business, so I screamed, “[BB], your phone is ringing! It’s someone named [Alex Spitz]!”

You should have seen the look she shot in my direction! What’s worse is that she panicked and kind of ran over to me, practically tripping over herself, and grabbed the phone out of my hand. It was too late to answer it, and she was reading me the riot act with her eyes. Of course, this got Rob’s attention, so he grabbed the luggage and asked what all the commotion was about. We both fumbled and mumbled a couple of fairly convincing things. But damn. I can’t believe I did that right out of the chute!

I was so careful not to screw up any more while they were here, but Best Bud got super ballsy several times and actually called a couple of guys to wish them a happy Thanksgiving. I’m actually ashamed to admit this, but I even talked to one of them while she and I were in the kitchen cleaning up!

She so wants to get caught, it’s not even funny. I feel pretty shitty for being an accessory. But at the same time, her hints are not subtle at all. She’s even asked for a separation. He’s in complete denial. I know, it shouldn’t be my business, but she’s made it mine.

And the really sad thing is, I adore him. Everyone adores him. Even Best Bud. They are great friends, they are hilarious together. My parents even commented on what a great couple they make (they’d never met BB and Rob before…even after all these years!). I don’t know what else to say. I think I’ve already said enough.

Dr. P was actually pretty damn cool, considering the fact that he’s one of the craziest people I’ve ever known. It was obvious that he was laying low this weekend. Didn’t drink very much, and obviously abstained from the drugs. Sure, he was still his obtuse self, but in a really, really good way. He charmed my parents (even when making obscure references to the porno mail he’s been sending me recently), brought excellent wine and champagne, and even brought a really sweet date over on Friday night [leave it to Dr. P to have yet another chickie…here of all places!].

The party on Thursday night was very small and mellow. And that was just fine. There were just a few glitches, and even though I was a little embarrassed by them, they were fairly humorous.

The first of which was Jen and Secret Agent Guy. Now. It’s public knowledge that SAG has been out with both Jen and me. And it’s also pretty much public knowledge that SAG has made it known that he wants (or rather wanted) to go out with me again. He again made it pretty obvious at the beginning of the night.

BUT! It’s widely known that Jen, who is extremely cute, bubbly, and flirtatious, MUST have the majority of the attention. And she must always get the guy. You see where this is going? Yeah. With Jen and SAG, sitting on the couch in my living room pawing each other. In front of all of us.

It was impossible to ignore, and I tried to laugh it off…especially the next day when I was chided over and over again. But honestly, it kinda hurt my feelings.

The second thing that made me feel sorta icky was the fact that MM called during the festivities and left a message telling me that he wasn’t coming to the party because, well, basically because he was too fucking FULL!! He was going to bring the gloves that I’d left over at his place, but called to tell me that he was in a food coma and had decided to stay home and watch TV or some shit like that. Mutherfucker. Wish he hadn’t even called.

And of course, Super T was practically a mere hour’s drive away and couldn’t make it either.

My dad has taken to calling all the men in my life dorks.

How fitting. I’d already ordered myself this early Christmas present: I Heart Dorks.

Other than those minor snafus, I had a really great time.

The food was good. Wine flowed. The wassail was a hit. I was surrounded by odd and interesting creatures. What more could I possibly want?

My quirky gang got together on Friday to have lunch and take in a little shopping. And Friday evening was spent watching the “Don’t Dress Like a Turkey”—What Not to Wear Marathon until we couldn’t stand it any longer and had to go out for cocktails.

Damn. I need to finish this later because of the homework issues I’m having right now.