The Sting of Thanksgiving

Every year at Thanksgiving, I am reminded of the first time I invited my family over to my house for the holiday.  It was 1998.  Back then, Dave and I had been married just a little over a year.  We were living in our first house - a little bungalow in the historic preservation district.  The house was adorable, but the kitchen (circa 1936) left MUCH to be desired.  The oven leaked, leaving the faint smell of natural gas lingering around the house for days after I cooked.  And the counter space was, um, LACKING.

So, as you might imagine, I stressed about cooking Thanksgiving.  I wanted to get it right.  It was important to me to impress my mother while also avoiding scorn from my brothers.  And Internet, I would like for you to know that I cooked an EXCELLENT dinner.  The turkey was juicy and golden brown.  All the side dishes came out at the same time (aren't you impressed?!).  I was very proud. 

As we were all seated around the table, with all the food steaming in front of us, we bowed our heads and Dave began to say the prayer. 

And that's when it happened.

In mid-sentence, Dave STOOD UP from the table and yelled SHIT!!! at the top of his lungs WHILE GRABBING HIS *ahem* MAN PARTS.

Then he ran away.  Into the kitchen.  IN MID-PRAYER, y'all!

I ran after Dave to find him in the kitchen STILL HOLDING HIS PARTS.  Apparently, just as Dave was thanking Jesus for our bountiful feast, a wayward wasp decided to crawl up his pants and began stinging him all the way up to, uh, The Motherland.  Dave had managed to catch the wasp just before it stung him on his giblets.  He was holding the wasp through his pants.  So I did the only thing I could do in that situation.  I unbuttoned his pants and removed them right there in the kitchen.

Wanna guess when my momma walked in?  Yeah.  I had a lot of explaining to do that Thanksgiving.