A few years ago, I skipped my family's traditional Thanksgiving dinner (which happens at my mom's best friend's house) in order to spend the holiday with my boyfriend's family in wine country. I remember exactly nothing about the boyfriend's dinner (except that one of the guests came to the table in a bright green Juicy Couture sweatsuit and Uggs), but while I was suffering through polite conversation and an unacceptable scarcity of wine, my family was back in San Francisco enjoy a delicious home-cooked feast and discussing really important things with my mom's best friend and her three teenage sons:
Like what to name the new Golden Retriever puppy who was arriving just in time for Christmas.
As I said, I wasn't there, so I can't be *quite* sure how it all went down, but based on the way it was relayed to me, it went something like this:
Mom's best friend: We're getting a new puppy for Christmas! What should we call her?
My brother: Daisy... because they're both little bitches.
And just like that, I gained a namesake.
And simultaneously vowed to never skip another Thanksgiving dinner again.
Sure, I now spend the entire meal perking up my ears every time someone says, "DAISY: NO!" or "Daisy, Come here!" or "Daisy, DROP that!" and yes, it was a little awkward last year when the 16-year-old son asked after dessert, "Daisy, Want your belly rubbed?" and I lifted my sweater while nodding groggily, but they made it clear what might happen if I choose to celebrate elsewhere, and I'm not willing to take that risk ever again.
Plus, doing copius shots of Wild Turkey is a tradition at their house. And, best of all, no one shows up in Juicy sweats.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING from Daisy the Dog & Daisy the Person!
May your festivities be full of cheer (which we all know means wine), void of drama (or as little as possible), and may you not wake up on Friday with a face smudged with war paint, a bow and arrow tucked in your sheets, or a Wild Turkey hangover that lasts until Christmas.
