Just another weekend in the 'myrna

It seems like my generation gets a bad rap. We’re addicted to conversations via text, we thrive on reality TV, and we’ll probably legalize marijuana in another 10 years. Maybe it’s all of the change that happens in our twenties, but I feel that the one true glimmer of hope that we embrace is that we love tradition. When I interviewed people for my December installment of ‘Spill It’ for Drink Magazine, I asked people what was their reason to drink during the holidays. Everyone said the same thing- their families. But they all said it with a smile, and they had fun reminiscing examples of family feuds and flaws. We also love the food. It feels like the one thing I can always count on- the hash brown casserole my Nana makes, the cranberry sauce that always has the shape of the can, the green bean casserole that I’ve taken the responsibility over, and eating a third of the fried onions before they even make it into the dish.

It’s also been a tradition in my family that it’s a small gathering: Mom and Dad, Nana and Poppy, and my great Aunt Pauline and Uncle Johnny. It’s been that way for the 13 years we’ve lived in New Smyrna Beach, and though we always had a lot more family in West Palm, I always saw them. You can imagine my shock when I found out that my beloved Aunt Pauline would still be in hospice, my Uncle Johnny being consoled by his children and grandchildren, and my own Nana and Poppy running off and not letting us know where for a ‘vacation’. Determined not to let the holiday go to waste, I offered to finally take the feast under my watch. After all, it’s not that hard to open a few cans of food, dump them into a casserole dish, and pop it in the oven.

Much to my disappointment, my parents firmly declined my offer and said we’d be going out to eat. That’s my Thanksgiving in a nutshell.

Now my 4-day Thanksgiving holiday was quickly turning just another long weekend involving driving out to New Smyrna and avoiding my parents by getting drunk on a beach with my childhood friends, talking about all the poor souls that aren’t doing as well as we like to pretend that we are. It also, sadly, involves me dropping all good senses and spotting some tattooed mess that probably has multiple DUI’s and a few knocked up girlfriends at the local Flagler Avenue watering hole and giving him my number. Fortunately, other noteworthy shenanigans involved Tartuffe jokes and shots with Mike Herdegen, sex talks with Cassie, wandering around beachside with Courtney, running into friends I haven’t seen in a few years like Mike Lints, and yet another party until the wee hours of the morning at the beachside Preston household with none other than friendboys Casey and Eric. I’ve also been told that I got into heated conversations with a girl about the necessity of carrying a taser in New Smyrna Beach. But really… Who needs one??

And what weekend with my parents would be complete without the steady stream of nonsense coming from my mom’s mouth?

“Hey Heather, since you like to write so much, why don’t you get a job working as an advice columnist for a financial magazine?” “…Because I think it’s a well-established fact that I am the last person that anyone should ask for financial advice?” She obviously was flipping through the movie channels and spotted Confessions of a Shopaholic. Besides, I know bars in Orlando. That’s why I write for Drink. Sorry it’s not as respectable as Money, but I get to write words like ‘shitfaced’, and that has more of a ring to me at this moment than words like ‘investment planning’.

And then there was: “I’m really disappointed in you Heather. I can’t believe how you’ve just let your car go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that a big, fat slob lived in your car.” I really couldn’t rebuttal this one. I could tell her that some of the mess was from hauling a bunch of guys (one dressed as Batman) around Gainesville a few weeks ago in which a gallon jug of water was accidentally trampled in the heat of the moment and, yes, I’m too lazy to care. I could also tell her that I’m disappointed in how she’s let herself go- packing on a good 80 pounds the last 3 years from her steady diet of bagels, cream cheese and Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches, developing type 2 diabetes, and sitting around in pajamas for days on end.

This argument felt best left un-fought. I got into my pigsty of a car and took off for Daytona Beach to pick up my friend Poopie, who needed a ride to Orlando to join the last few tour dates as a tech for Breathe Carolina. One of the other things my mom told me was that, after patiently counting down the days, my Aunt Pauline had passed away on Thanksgiving Day.

She waited until the next day to tell me this.

So I blew off reality. Poopie and I drove out to the House of Blues to meet up with Breathe Carolina and the rest of their crew. I guess it was the usual tour bus scenario- red solo cups and bottles of cheap whiskey and two barely-legal Ke$ha look-alikes (who oddly enough proudly proclaimed that they in fact hated Ke$ha, and that she stole their lives and was making money off of them. I told them they should sue her for intellectual property infringement.) More hilarious than their desperate half-assed acts of lesbianism was the fact that not a single guy- not even the lowliest of roadies- was paying them a bit of attention. I was sitting there, like I do, taking in all of the action and occasionally chatting it up with a drum tech or even Kyle and David from the band. David was a riot, and Kyle kept on thanking me for ‘just chilling’. He remembered us chatting at Warped Tour and my ‘Mullet Shirt’, and kindly told me to make myself at home.

Later he explained that it’s nice to just have some ‘normal’ people around. He has a girlfriend back home, as do many of the other guys, and it gets really old really fast when girls are getting trashed and throwing themselves all over the bus. I needed a break from Ke$ha Lookalike #1 asking me my name, then asking me to dance, then telling me she loved me, and what my name was again, and Kyle needed to head up to the venue. Desperately seeking fresh air, we trekked from the bus up to the venue where a long line was already forming. “Wow… That’s not the line for us, is it,” he asked in amazement. Then a few girls came running up and asked for pictures. Then a few more kids. Then a few more kids, until about two dozen teens in skinny jeans and Wayfarers were clamoring for pictures to be taken and shirts to be signed. Kyle shook hands, said thank you to every person, gave hugs, and signed every last ticket stub with a smile. We walked a few more steps to the venue, and said goodbye. I had to get back to New Smyrna and he had a show to put on, so we gave each other a big hug and parted ways. I hung out on the bus a little longer with the crowd, but I wasn’t drinking since I knew I had to get home soon. The crew said they wish I could have stayed, but I grabbed my keys and bid everyone- except the Ke$has- a good show and great rest of the tour.

A few hours later, I was back in routine at Courtney’s. We were planning on popping by Flagler Avenue again so I could meet up with the guy I gave my number to. He had me add him to my phone as ‘Danimal’, so I knew I was in for a treat. Courtney came as my wingwoman, and I almost didn’t think I needed her until Danimal decided to woo me with his extensive abilities smoke his way through an eight of grass a day, and he was a true gentleman when he invited me back to his truck to do whippets and listen to dubstep. Granted he never mentioned any DUI’s or illegitimate children, he was a barback at a famous strip club. Courtney asked me, “Do you want to go see my mom’s new bathroom?” I shook my head enthusiastically.

I was too exhausted to put up with bar shenanigans. I was too exhausted to deal with my mom at home. So I curled up in a recliner in Courtney’s living room with a plate of leftovers while she caught up on the latest episode of The Walking Dead. I hadn’t allowed myself to be so still for at least a week.

In between dozing off and nibbling on potato salad, I started to wonder when it would hit me- when I’d finally allow myself to miss my Aunt Pauline. Looking down at my plate of leftovers, I saw I had a piece of pecan and pumpkin pie left. A few years ago, Aunt Pauline brought a ‘holiday pie’- some Paula Dean recipe that combined the two pies into something nothing short of spectacular, and because I liked it so much she made it a point to make one every year thereafter. I smooshed my pieces of pie together. I thought that next year will go back to normal. We’ll have casseroles and debates between the generations. We might even have holiday pie. We’ll just be short one.

Some traditions you just can’t keep.