The Morning After: Mommy Has a Thanksgiving Message

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Thanksgiving is a wonderful opportunity to come together with your family and give thanks for the abundance of gifts you’ve received over the seasons: health, happiness, togetherness, discovering that sandwich place on campus that’s open until 3a.m. on weekends.

For one night, calories (and there are many) don’t count.  There’s no guilt when reaching for that second piece of pie because you’re pretty sure your fat cousin Maggie is on her sixth slice.  Gravy is meant to be consumed over everything.  Thin slices of turkey are for novices, so you, practically a freakin’ pilgrim, want the whole dang leg.  Diets can resume tomorrow.

My favorite part of this sacred holiday, however, comes when the table is cleared and the family is passed out in the living room.  It’s a subtle tradition, but one that college students the country over take quiet pleasure in every year.  What am I referring to, you ask?  Well, it’s the “I’m home with nothing to do and so are you, so let’s do each other” booty call.

Don’t make like you don’t know what I’m talking about.  I saw you last year texting under the tablecloth, trying to be all sneaky.  So little Bobby Stewart from down the street grew into those ears just as he turned a very legal 18.  Or maybe Chris Philips, the quarterback who never gave you a second look, acquired a beer belly and doesn’t mind the more bookish girls anymore.  Fine, you’re no Heidi Klum.  Whatever.  He was still the most popular guy in high school.  And here’s your chance to show him what he was missing when he turned you down at prom.

I, myself, prefer to visit familiar territory.  And last year that territory took the shape of a very cute, very single, very ex-boyfriend.  It’s true.  We had dated.  For six months when we were 14.  What can I say?  There was some intense hand-holding, a few make out sessions, but not much else, and I needed to find out what I had missed so long ago.  I had, however, felt what he was hiding in his jeans, and let me tell you –  you would have been eager to finally jump on that, too.

So when I saw on Facebook that my first love was back in town for the holiday weekend, I sent him a little message.  Nothing intense, just a friendly “hey” and the suggestion that we get a drink after we were done with our families.  He took the bait, we exchanged a few more messages, traded current numbers, and made plans for a post-Turkey rendezvous at the local dive bar.

As the plates were being cleared from the feast my extended family had just devoured as though it were a temptation challenge on the Biggest Loser, I made sure I was wearing a pair of my good undies and that there wasn’t any food on my shirt.  (Hey, it happens.)  Having checked out all right in the mirror, I shot the dude a text saying I’d sneak out to meet him in fifteen.  I sprinted for my coat, told my mom I’d be back in a few hours, and made a dash for the door before anyone could ask me to take the dog out.

Success!  It was freezing out, but I decided to walk to the bar…it was only a few blocks away and I didn’t want to have to worry about driving after I’d had a few (hundred) drinks.  By the time I saw the warm glow of that PBR sign in the window, I wanted three things: heating, vodka, and sex.  In that order.  And the sight that greeted me made my heart leap with satisfaction.  My dashing man had finally ditched his bowl cut in favor of one of those delicious “It just does this on its own” looks that requires two hours and five separate products.  He was also sitting in the booth farthest from the door with a drink waiting for me.  My frozen arms could hardly extend quickly enough to give him a hug and shed a single tear of joy onto his cozy North Face.

We proceeded to sit and drink and complain about families until last call four hours later.  I was in one of those glorious hazes only brought on by copious amounts of alcohol and a supremely attractive drinking companion.  So, needless to say, it was a no-brainer when he asked if I wanted to go back to his parents’ pool house and watch a movie.  Of course!  I’d love to “watch a movie”!  “Movies” are my favorite!  Let’s watch three movies in a row!  Hell, let’s watch movies all night!

And that’s exactly what we did.  Except his parents’ pool house had no TV, so it wasn’t exactly what we did, but you get the idea.  We had a lot of sex.  Before I knew it, sobriety was creeping up along with the sun outside, my phone was vibrating indicating I had unread texts, and my beautiful boy was putting his clothes back on.  Sadness.  I flipped my phone open to find a series of increasingly dire texts from my mother (“Where did you go to?” “You okay?” “Seriously, are you dead?” “It’s almost dawn, where the hell are you, young lady!?” “I’m calling the police.”).

My wonderful night had turned into the morning of every parents’ worst nightmare (child abduction) and every child’s greatest challenge (the secret walk of shame back to your family home).  Seeing that I was awake, the boy stopped buttoning up his shirt and asked if I wanted to go for another round.  I looked into his hopeful eyes, patted him on the head, and promised to come back for seconds (well, fifths) over Christmas break.

With that, I made sure none of my clothes were on backwards and I set out to meet my fate.  I had an inkling they’d be waiting up, that’s what kind of parents I had.  The worried sort.  The ones who insist a sparkly cardigan isn’t a proper coat and who slip you Tums in front of your friends because they know you’ve got a sensitive stomach.  So when I opened the front door and found Mom and Dad nowhere in sight, I let out the biggest sigh of relief.

Throwing my coat down on the couch, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water and saw spelled out in refrigerator magnets a loving message from my dear mother: “Mornin, whore! xoxo”

[You think that’s bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

Intro to Cooking: Thanksgiving at College!
Intro to Cooking: Thanksgiving at College!
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