Flipping the Bird and Socking it to Your Sister: The True Meaning of Thanksgiving

The great Benjamin Franklin once said, “In this world nothing can be certain, except death and taxes.” (Thanks, Googs)

While that may be true, there are other less-certain certainties in life that we can count on year after year. One of these such certainties are holidays. Specifically, Thanksgiving.

I’m not gonna to lie, I don’t know much about Thanksgiving other than what I can gather from its name, my mislead childhood learning of pilgrims and Native Americans, and the fact that I celebrate it year after year.

So why the hell do I celebrate it year after year? As a kid it made sense. Someone threw you in a car on Wednesday night and drove your sleeping ass to your grandma’s house three hours away. You slept in Thursday morning and spent all day playing Mario Kart and Diddy Kong Racing with your sister and cousins. (You didn’t actually own Diddy Kong Racing, but your dad let you rent it from Blockbuster just this one time to get you to shut the fuck up about it for the rest of the year)

You ate everything in sight in seconds, and even thirds, with zero remorse. Afterward, while the men were drinking beer and watching football, you slipped out the front door with your favorite cousin to climb and hide in some trees down at the park before your aunt could get a hold of you and make you help all the other cousins with the dishes. “See ya, sucker,” you mouthed to your dickwad sister as you ran past the kitchen window, flipping her off. Teach that bitch to hit you with the red turtle shell a mere seconds from victory.


Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is supposed to be about? Flipping off siblings and not giving a shit about anyone but yourself and occasionally your fun cousin? Not anymore, not in the adult world.

Now, instead of sleeping in the backseat, dreaming of Stove Top Stuffing and Reese’s No-Bake Dessert Bars (our Thanksgivings were what my dad liked to call “budget-friendly”), you’re now driving said car, arguing with your boyfriend about why he had to wait until you were completely ready to walk out the door to take his morning shit, and how he thinks maybe if you didn’t have the makeup routine of a circus clown, you could have made it to your destination prior to his morning shit. Whatever, you’re still late.

Luckily, anyone and everyone in the history of Thanksgiving has never served Thanksgiving dinner when they said they would. So you walk in the front door just in the nick of time.

You load your plate with delicious food. But you can’t even enjoy it because your anxiety grows in conjunction with the mountain of dirty dishes filling the sink. But at 27, running out the front door and flipping off your boyfriend’s grandma to avoid doing dishes is no longer acceptable by normal societal standards. So you down your third glass of red wine and hope it kicks in long enough to make you forget you’re doing the dishes, but not so long that you insist on everyone following you out to the pool for a polar bear plunge, which turns into a polar bear plunge party of one. And an invitation to never return to Thanksgiving dinner.

But with age and wisdom inevitably comes responsibility. So what is Thanksgiving all about? It would seem that every year, Thanksgiving proves to be symbolic of all of life’s experiences and emotions:

Elation at the fact that we don’t have to see our bosses for four whole days.

Excitement when you see your cousins that you haven’t seen since last Christmas.

Orneriness as you gossip with your sister and pick apart your older cousin’s skanky new girlfriend in the crop top. Unless you’re the skanky new girlfriend, then this falls under anxiety.

Anger when, even at 29 with two children of her own, your fucking asshole sister won’t STOP HITTING YOU WITH THE GODDAMN RED TURTLE! LET ME WIN ONE FUCKING ROUND OF MARIO KART FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE YOU DICK!

Impatience as you smell the turkey cooking in the oven.

Entertainment when you hear your stubborn aunt and your stubborn father argue over whether the can of yams is supposed to be drained prior to going into the oven.

Culture when your aunt does it her way anyway, and you become the only family on Thanksgiving to have Yam Soup with floating marshmallows.

Happiness as you sit around a table with all the people you love.

Anxiety as you calculate the amount of time it’s going to take you to get through the dishes when all you want to do is sneak out to your car for a little cat nap.

Satisfaction when you find your grandma’s key to the bathroom and unlock the door in the middle of your sister’s post-Thanksgiving poo, for all the family to see. Revenge has never smelled so rancid.

Embarrassment as your dad and uncle ask your boyfriend if you’ve ever told him about Uncle Johnny who’s about to get out of prison. Whose favorite niece happens to be you.

Sorrow as the holiday comes to an end, and everyone says their goodbyes.

Anticipation for next year’s Thanksgiving with everyone sitting around the same table again.

Heartache when a family member you assumed would always be there, sitting at the head of the table, won’t be next year. Or any years to come.

Bittersweet as you cherish the holidays with loved ones a little more, and hug everyone a little tighter than you did when you were a kid. Because when you were kid, you and everyone else was invincible. And now we’re not. (But they still deserve to be flipped off and put in their place every once in a while, *cough* Maddi *cough*)

Faith that the newest little shithead additions to the family table will carry on the torch, and hope that younger siblings everywhere get sweet revenge on their older siblings on Thanksgiving, and everyday after.

So this Thanksgiving, I encourage you to put on your big girl panties, let your boyfriend take his morning shit whenever he wants, and pack a pair of yellow dish gloves. Because trying to get at the marshmallows in your Yam Soup might make you feel like you’re bobbing for apples, and doing dishes fucking blows, but at least you’ll be in good company, making memories to cherish when the ones we love may no longer be around to make memories with.

And for the sake of your sanity, I beg you, please spike the egg nog.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Flipping the Bird and Socking it to Your Sister: The True Meaning of Thanksgiving

Call Me a Basic Bitch Because I Fucking Love Starbucks

FullSizeRender (2)

Ahh the Basic Bitch. A girl who loves all things fall, wears Uggs with leggings and over sized sweaters, spends hours watching YouTube makeup tutorials and scours Pinterest for the perfect ponytail. Labor Day is her official mark for when it is appropriate to begin listening to Christmas music. She loves Disneyland, wine, puppies, and Instagram filters. Above all else, however, the Basic Bitch loves Starbucks.

We all love to point and laugh and make fun of the Basic Bitch, and we all think we’re not that girl. So what if I’ve had a new pair of Uggs every two years since 8th grade, or that today I’m sporting Lauren Conrad’s “Twisted Sister” bun, a tutorial which I may or may not have watched 7 times on her blog (you don’t know me).

I know the dishonor of being a basic bitch doesn’t discriminate, but being white automatically increases your chances of basic bitchness by 762% (look it up, it’s science). But I’m a quarter Mexican (thanks, Mom!), so I can’t possibly be a basic bitch! Right?

This morning as I sipped on my Grande Iced Caffè Latte with Non-fat Milk and laughed at a funny video of a bunch of blonde sorority girls taking selfies of themselves and their food for 5 fucking minutes straight at a baseball game, I thought Thank God I’m not like one of those girls. 

I got to the end of my ice cold beverage and almost had a panic attack because I really wished I had savored it a bit more, or perhaps I should have gone with the Venti instead. I threw the plastic cup with the recognizable green, naked mermaid (what the fuck is that, Starbucks?) in the recycling bin where my empty October Birch Box also lay. I put on some Sweet Pea hand sanitzer from Bath and Body Works, followed by my True Blue Spa Paraffin super softening hand lotion. On my way to put the lotion up in the cabinet, I knocked over my Kate Spade pencil holder and out fell all my multi-colored gel pens and my stainless steel Nate Berkus gold scissors. And that’s when it hit me.

I’m as fucking basic as they come.

I grew dizzy, looking frantically around my office. My chalkboard-style calendar from Paper Source which once screamed “I’m chic as fuck” suddenly screamed “BAAAAAAAAAASIC”. My $1 IKEA vase with a single white, daisy stared scornfully at me from beside my computer monitor. You fake, white bastard, I thought. I could almost hear the daisy taunting me back, “You’re as fake and white as I am. You are a basic bitch.

[Ok so the daisy wasn’t pure white. It was a little off-white, like maybe it had a quarter Mexican daisy in it, so it became a tanned daisy pretty easily which was convenient for the mostly white daisy. But I couldn’t deny the fact that it was, in fact, a fake daisy and three-quarters white, and so was I.]

Part of me wanted to throw everything away, pack up and move somewhere like Seattle or Portland. Somewhere where drinking coffee is hip and I could hide my leggings and over-sized sweaters under my rain coat.

No, I thought, you’re bigger than the basic bitch.

What the fuck do you mean bigger? I thought back to myself

Oh my god, staaaaaahhhhhppp. I mean bigger like how Julia Roberts was bigger than the ladies at that boutique on Rodeo who wouldn’t let her shop there in Pretty Woman.

Go on…

Or bigger like how when Cookie Lyon got out of prison she set out to get what was hers from her hip hop mogul ex-husband Lucious on Empire.

I’m listening…

Or bigger like JLaw addressing the hack that exposed her nudes in the November 2014 issue of Vanity Fair. That kind of bigger. You’re like a Julia Roberts meets Taraji P. Henson meets Jennifer Lawrence kind of big.

Oh, ok good. Because I thought you were calling me fat.

No, but since you brought it up, if you don’t lay off those peanut butter filled pretzels from Costco we might need to talk.


My world slowly came back into focus. So maybe I like a lot of things basic bitches like and do a lot of things that basic bitches do. Maybe I am a basic bitch from time to time, like from the time I wake up in the morning to the time I fall asleep at night, but who’s keeping track?

I love my Uggs, and when my big ass toe pokes another hole through my current pair of Uggs, I will replace them with the same, new pair of Uggs. I love Bath and Body Works lotion and pumpkin patches and scented candles. And I fucking love Starbucks, God dammit.

So color me basic and call me a bitch, because if the Ugg boot fits, I will fucking wear it.

We’ve all got a little basic bitch in us, and if Dr. Seuss has taught us anything, it’s that it’s ok to settle for being a mediocre human who is the antithesis of unique. We can’t all be winners in this game called life, so I’m going to enjoy my Christmas music in the middle of fucking July if I want to, I’ll savor every drop of my pumpkin spice latte, and I will continue to make fun of other basic bitches and live in denial that I am not one of them.

Peace out, bitches! ✌🏼️

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Call Me a Basic Bitch Because I Fucking Love Starbucks