Yesterday was a typical Thanksgiving, for the most part. I’m nowhere near my family and Husband and I did not fight while making dinner. We didn’t even make dinner, we went out. Other than that, a typical Thanksgiving.
I got up, putzed around, watched lifetime movies, ate stuff I shouldn’t. Husband got up, started a fire in the fire pit to burn the branch bits from the yard, while I raked leaves. We got showered and dressed for dinner out at a fancy but casual stake house where we both ate the thanksgiving meal. Our waiter let us know Bo from Dukes of Hazard was eating “with us” and so we ogled him on the way out.
Came home, face timed with my family, decided we were too full and wimpy to go to a party. Were about to get into our comfies and then this happened:
TEXT FROM THE NEIGHBOR:
Are y’ all home? We are re-enacting the first thanksgiving and need a photographer. Could one of ya come take a photo?
TEXT FROM ME:
Yup! Right over!
TEXT FROM THE NEIGHBOR:
Don’t be scared.
We rushed over – well I rushed, Husband meandered – and found the most wonderful thing in the world. Our neighbors and their family dressed as pilgrims and Indians. All of them – from grandpa in his tighty whiteys and a ‘loin cloth’ front and grandma in her best pilgrim black and white to the four month old in a brown onesy with a large feathered tail pined to her diapered behind sitting on a silver platter.
Husband was in charge of the cameras. I did not, could not even attempt to take a picture. I was laughing too hard at the wonderful display to hold my hand steady. At one point, the ‘turkey’ even prayed – or shoved her fingers into her mouth as she tried to chew them - whatever. It was an awesome display of what family commitment and lots of booze can do
I wonder what they do for Christmas. I hope we get an invite to photograph that!
Happy Thanksgivukkah all!
My goal is to make it through today without adding another chapter to Embarrassing Things That Have Happened To Me At Thanksgiving stories. I, thankfully, do not have any embarrassing Hanukah stories. Yet.
As we don’t have a kitchen, and Husband can’t eat in other people’s homes, we’re going to eat out and then join some friends after at their house - after they’ve eaten, of course. Discussions about body parts are off limits – unless, of course, we’re discussing my blog posts.
Wish me luck. We’re eating out and Husband gets very quiet in restaurants. He thinks everyone is listening to our conversation. And, as you know, awkward silence is my nemesis. The potential for things going tits up are great…
To recap the story so far: Thanksgiving was a lesson in humiliation for me. I learned lots about threesomes – as did my family. Lots more than I feel that they should have. A few days after the Thanksgiving threesome dinner, friend-kind-of-date, Australian “Bob” had a date to attend a party but he wanted make a surprise stop first. The surprise stop turned out to be to be at a sex shop to buy a vibrator. Yes, my friend-kind-of-date, took me to a sex shop to buy a vibrator, where Pimply-Faced Teen working behind the counter, casually asked me the size of my hood and expected me to know the answer and then seemed very surprised that I didn’t.
Um…who in the hell knows that kind of thing? I mean, is that a section of biology class I missed? Is there a chart in a doctor’s office that lets you know the size of your hood pasted up on the wall next to the one that lets you know you’re obese? This was not on the test!
When I told Pimply-Faced Teen working behind the counter in the sex shop that I had no clue what the size of my hood was, he said -
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: We have a dressing room with a mirror in the back if you’d like to check.
AND HE HANDED ME A MIRROR!
Now I’m a people pleaser. I have never ever enjoyed upsetting people or rocking the boat. It makes me ill. So, if there is a way I can make someone happy, I will. But that dear Pimply-Faced teen was going to be sorely disappointed if he honestly thought I was going to pick up that mirror, go in to the dressing room IN THE SEX SHOP, pull off my date pants and measure the size of my hood.
How, I wondered, how was I supposed to measure my hood in the dressing room of the sex shop anyway? Was there a measuring tape on the wall? Would Pimply-Faced Teen give me a teeny tiny ruler along with the hand mirror he was thrusting at me that would allow me to measure my lady-bits? Or would there be one dangling from a rusty nail on the wall like the ones they have in hardware stores, those awful wooden yard sticks. And what in the hell would me measuring myself in the mirror look like on the video the sex shop dressing room was sure to have? Me, with my legs akimbo trying to measure a body part I didn’t know had a name until minutes before? That's sure to be internet gold.
This all went through my head as I stood there staring at him; mouth ajar, a look of utter confusion on my face. Finally my brain kicked back into gear, I took a breath and closed my mouth. I handed Pimply-Faced Teen back his mirror, smiled and thanked him kindly for the offer of the dressing room but that I’d pass.
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: Are you sure ma’am?
ME: Yup. Yup. I’m sure.
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: Do you want to guess what size your hood is?
ME: Ahhhh…. I think I’m just going to go with average and leave it at that.
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: Okay then.
He then proceeded to pull out various vibrators and lay them on the counter. The giggling came back. I managed to smother it under a coughing fit.
And then, Pimply-Faced Teen picked one up and put it into the palm of my hand.
So there I was, dressed in my very best date outfit, on a friend-kind-of-DATE, while a man I didn’t know was pressing colorful rubber male genital into my hands AND NO ONE BUT ME WAS FINDING THIS FUNNY!
My suppressed giggling coughing fit turned into full on bursts of snorting laughter. I was crying, tears streaming down my burning face as I stood there, a purple lady faced rabbit in one hand and a blue lady faced bear with a fish in its mouth in the other. Both of them vibrating and both of them turned so the little Asian girl faces on the head of the penis were smiling up at me, almost as if they were saying -
PENIS FACE: Pick me I’ll be fun. Watch as I jiggle, wiggle, and vibrate.
Australian Bob asked me which one I wanted but I was out of words. I just kept shaking my head and letting out bursts of hysterical snorts. Australian Bob asked Pimply-Faced Teen to get us the purple rabbit one with the twirling ears. Pimply-Faced Teen agreed with his choice - apparently, it was the most popular - and off he went to find one. I promptly put down the bear and the rabbit, put my hands in my pockets and tried look classy and cool as I attempted to pull myself together. It was hopeless. There is nothing less cool and sophisticated than a woman, tears of laughter streaming down her flushed face in a sex shop on a friend-kind-of-date.
And then Pimply-Faced Teen came back and let us in on the bad news. The rabbit was out of stock. Did we want the bear with its vibrating fish in its mouth? Or could he interest me in something else?
I shook my head with an emphatic NO and tried to look disappointed behind my glee. We thanked our dear pimply-faced friend and left. As we drove to the party, Australian Bob tried talking to me about the experience but all I could do was manically giggle. While my ego turned cartwheels of happiness, Australian Bob was outraged, "All that," he said, "for nothing." All that, I thought, and we were only an hour into our date! What else could this night with Australian Bob possibly have in store for little ol’ me?
Now most people would keep the evening’s activities so far to themselves, at least until the shame had faded from their face and the smell of rubber genital had been washed clean from their hands. Not me. On arrival at the party, I promptly downed a glass of wine and proceeded to tell the story of our friend-kind-of-date to everyone. Every group of people standing about was assaulted with my tale. People I’d known for years, people I’d just met, couples trying to have a moment by the fire, starting deep into each other’s eyes were suddenly greeted by me -
ME: Do you know what a hood is on a woman? Do you? Do you?
And then I would gesture to my lady–bits area. No one seemed to know about the hood. And I’m sure those that said they did were lying. I told the story so many times that folks were steering clear of me. When Australian Bob finally got me home, I told Mom. She was amused enough to listen to the whole story and, being my Mom, got out her dictionary while I talked and looked up the hood. We sat at the counter studying the sketching of hoods and laughing at the possible positions I would have had to get myself into to measure my bits. And we laughed at my very humiliating, albeit very educational, date.
A week later, UPS delivered a plain brown box to the house. Mom was with me when I opened it up. Mom who knew the whole story about the sex shop, and the hood, and the vibrators. Mom who was a very amused witness to the threesome Thanksgiving dinner inquisition with Australian Bob and Uncle and Aunt. My dear sweet Mom who was standing there when I opened up the box and pulled out one purple lady-faced rabbit vibrator courtesy of Australian Bob. My dear sweet Mom who did nothing but laugh as we both read the note –
NOTE FROM AUSTRALIAN BOB: Every girl should have a vibrator. Enjoy.
Neither my mother nor I said a word. Between the tears of laughter and the humiliation, neither of us could form words. I closed up the box and walked away as she stood bent over in the kitchen, unable to breathe she was laughing so hard. We’ve not spoken of it again. Until now, I’m sure. Now I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say.
Or maybe not... I still don’t know the size of my hood.
Dates are always awkward. Dates where you're not sure if the date is a ‘date’ or a ‘friend date’ is even worse. But dates where your friend date has just told your family about his various threesomes in detail are totally self-conscious and weird.
My second ‘friend-kind-of-date’ date, with Australian Bob, was all of the above.
And then I met him at his house and we got into his car for our adventure and he took me to the sex shop, Leather Masters, and it all got weirder and more self-conscious. For me. Australian Bob was having a grand ol' time.
Oddly enough, I had actually been in this shop year before to pick up large dildo props for the show Lysistrata. That time, I only had time to run in and pick up the stuff that someone had ordered and pre-paid for. I had been too busy and too embarrassed to look around. Unlike now. On my ‘friend-kind-of-date’ date, with Australian Bob. At the sex shop.
Now, I don't wear makeup most days. If I bother, it's a bit of eye shadow and mascara. As this was a ‘friend-kind-of-date’ date, I had not only bothered to wear eye makeup, and my best ‘New York Actor’ black outfit, but I'd also put in contacts. And contacts meant no shield against all that was to come. I could not look over the tops of my glasses and make the world a blur. Contacts meant I was seeing everything clear as day. It was a literal eye-opener. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a prude. Growing up all my friends came to me for advice and, while most of the time I didn't actually have all the answers, I’d read a lot of stuff and could fake my way through a really good R-rated Dear Abby response. But Dear Abby was not going to help me here.
The shop was split into two sections. As you walk in, the leathers were straight ahead, a mostly claustrophobic mixture of biker gear and sexy time gear. To the right was the sex shop and all it's sexy time toys. We wandered around for a bit looking at all the shop had to offer. There were toys for each and every orifice. Some I could figure out. Some I had no clue as to what they or where they might possibly go. But me being me, and this being a possible date, I said nothing. I asked no questions. I just wandered about, dressed in my finest black on black, trying to look like nothing was shocking me, like I was a cool as a cucumber as my face grew hot enough to light a fire.
I did not know that there were such things as a um… pardon my vulgarity but it is really called this… I did not know that a thing like an f-ing machine existed. I stood staring at it for quite a while, in freaky awe at its obvious simplicity and total practical crudeness until Australian Bob steered me to the glass box counter where the expensive toys lived.
AUSTRALIAN BOB: “I want to buy you your first vibrator. Every girl should have one.”
ME: Um... Okay...
I said, trying to be as cool as possible while my inside voice was screaming “WHAT IN THE HELL IS HAPPENING???” My goal became walking out of here with my dignity intact and no hysterical laughter escaping my tightly pressed together lips.
The Pimply-Faced Teen behind the counter was busy helping some gentleman who was claiming his mini vibrator was defective. Australian Bob pointed out the various options while we waited. Did I want the bear with the fish in its mouth or the rabbit with the twirling ears? Did I like the big one with pulsing pearls or one with multi speeds and a G-spot vibrator or all of the above? I couldn’t stop the giggling in my head, the situation was so unreal. I was suddenly 11years old and back in 5th grade when we had to talk about penises and breasts with a straight face.
And the faces – all of the vibrators had little Japanese girl faces on the top of their penis part. Australian Bob informed me that most of the toys were made in Japan and that a law was passed at some point that craftsmen were not allowed to create sex toys that resembled male genitalia. The craftsmen got around this by carving a smiley girls face onto the end of each 'toy'. I nodded, trying to look serious and interested and pretend that looking at a smiley face on the end of the large purple vibrator on a 'friend-kind-of-date' was not making my inner self hide her head under a pillow and start screaming, “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING TO ME!”
Pimply-Faced Teen finished telling gentlemen that his vibrator was not defective but was, in fact, in need of a new battery and slithered over to serve us. Australian Bob told him what we were looking for. I just stood there, blushing, trying to not look like I was swimming in shark-infested smiley-faced penis waters. Pimply-Faced Teen explained all the various options for vibrators, in great detail. I didn't hear a thing he said over the prepubescent giggling in my head. And then Pimply-Faced Teen turned to me and asked -
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: Ma’am, what is the size of your hood?
Pause. My eyebrows raised, I smiled and said -
ME: Um… I’m sorry? I don’t know what that is.
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: Oh. Well, the hood is the fold of skin that protects your clit. It helps to know the size so that we can pick the right vibrator for you. If you have a deep hood, you'll want a different stimulator than if you have a shallow hood.
I swallowed air, choked a little and the little me inside burst out into manic hysterical laughter.
I said, nodding my head and looking serious, like I knew what he had just said and was considering my answer.
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: So? What size hood do you have?”
The little me inside jumped up and ran off screaming as I stuttered out the sentence –
ME: Oh. Um… I don’t know.
And then Pimply-Faced Teen - who did not even look like he was old enough to have sex let a lot be working behind the counter of sex shop actually said to me -
PIMPLY-FACED TEEN: We have a dressing room with a mirror in the back if you’d like to check.
AND THEN HE HANDED ME A MIRROR!!!
And scene. Part three tomorrow. I'm off to cool my face with a bucket of ice.
The Thanksgiving Threesome Story: Part One (because in my life, there can be multiple parts of a story about a Thanksgiving threesome gone wrong. And yes, this title is misleading.)
I have a hard time not reading while I eat and I suck at dinner conversations. I blame it on Mom. Mom, who spent years having to sit at the table and make polite conversation, never allowed to leave the table until my Grandfather gave his permission. Mom, who would often excuse herself to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the bathtub and read until they came looking for her. As a result of her forced formal dinners, she did the opposite with our dinner routine. Most of our dinners growing up were the three of us sitting at the table reading and not speaking to each other. When we did speak with each other, all topics were fair game. I would tell stories about things other kids were doing or smoking or sleeping with, the wilder the better. My brother would discuss the ins and outs of basketball, quote baseball statistics or tell ridiculous jokes that weren’t funny. And Mom would tell us what she did at work that day complete with details about co-workers we would never meet and the computer system we will never understand. None of us would actually listen to each other. Odd but it was our weird dinner norm.
The holidays would just amplify our weird norm. Uncle is unflappable. As a biologist, he has seen everything and has no qualms about sharing icky things he’s learned about the insides and outsides of birds. One Christmas, after he had spent some time describing the cream of spinach as “something a cow had been chewing on for days” he caused Brother to puke by describing the mashed potatoes Brother had just put in his mouth as "zit squeezing’s". Aunt is married to him so she can keep up with him, can also spew random gross information about birds, although she’s rather more versed in what is and isn’t okay in polite company.
One Thanksgiving, in somewhat polite company, it all went tits up.
As said my uncle is pretty unflappable. I knew I could never out gross him so I decided I would embarrass him. Sadly I cannot say I was a teenager when this happened. I was well past the age stupid attempts at embarrassing someone to win imaginary points is okay. I’m sure my insecurity with the overwhelming intelligence of the others at the table caused this rude, classless display. Can’t be bothered to psychoanalyze it now. All I know is that I did not come out on top. (Pun not intended)
Let me set the scene. It’s Thanksgiving. I honestly can’t remember what we were eating. Just because it was the turkey holiday doesn’t mean that there was a bird on the table. Since my grandmother died, my family had slowly let go of the traditions she'd held up for so long. We’d gotten lazy. We’d stopped putting the candlesticks on the table. Stopped bringing out the good china or the silver and, on some occasions, even stopped serving turkey.
Mom was seated at the head of the table; scarf tied about her bald chemo head. Uncle and Aunt were seated opposite my friend-kind-of-date, Australian “Bob”, and me. Because he was Australian, he was also unflappable. I think it’s an Australian trait. I’m not sure if his funky personality is why I went rogue with my dinner conversation, if his presence helped make me brave and totally stupid at the same time. All I know is I chose this as the night I upgraded from silly stories to totally inappropriate questions at the dinner table - and lost the war.
Somewhere between the small talk about the weather and the places we’d all been in Australia, I chose to throw out this brilliant question to Uncle. This totally inappropriate, unsuitable for polite company, I'm going directly to hell, question at our Thanksgiving table.
“Uncle. Have you ever had a threesome?”
I expected blushing. I expected stuttering. I expected silence. I did not expect a single word answer.
UNCLE: Have you?”
Shocked at the rapid fire return, I blushed. I stuttered. I blurted.
I blushed some more, my color reaching coal red. I retreated behind my fork, hoping the moment had passed and I could recover while the conversation moved on.
But it didn't. It got worse.
Aunt turned to my friend-kind-of-date and asked him –
AUNT: Have you had a threesome, Australian Bob?
And suddenly my attempt to shock and awe my Uncle turned into an inquisition of my friend-kind-of-date and his sexual proclivities. My friend-kind-of-date, who had no qualms about responding to each and every question with details - lots and lots of very explicit and somewhat gross details.
Turns out, my friend-kind-of-date had had threesomes. Lots of them. With boy-girl-boy combinations and with girl-boy-girl combinations. Aunt and Uncle had no qualms about asking questions – any specific and personal question they could about his experiences with multiple partners. Mom just sat there at the head of the table, laughing herself into tears, as I slowly turned brighter and brighter red and my head exploded in utter horror at the situation I’d created. This was my monster and I couldn’t stop it.
I couldn't stop it when my friend-kind-of-date shared this gem with everyone at the table –
AUSTRALIAN BOB: If you’re gonna to have a boy-girl-boy threesome, you would be best served to not have Indian food the night before.
Or when, somewhere in the middle of this stellar conversation, my friend-kind-of-date brought up vibrators. And asked me if I had one. In front of Mom. And Uncle. And Aunt.
It’s at this point I died a million tiny little deaths. Or it could have been the part when he ASKED THEM IF THEY HAD ONE????
AND THEY ANSWERED!
Lesson was learned. All the points did not go to me. I would never win a battle against Uncle. And if I couldn’t handle the heat, I needed to stay out of the kitchen. Or at least out of any future discussion about anything sexual at any family event. Ever.
You’d think the story ends here but it doesn’t. You’d think that this might be the worse it gets but it’s not.
Australian Bob, and I were set to go to a holiday party thrown by a couple of my friends a few days later.
And Australian Bob decided to stop at a sex shop and buy me a vibrator on the way…!
To be continued - tomorrow.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me