Bob Vila in My Pants & Cock Wine

My balls participated in No-Shave November. I was so ready for December 1st. The last two weeks of November felt like I had Bob Vila in my boxerbriefs. I think my balls might have been renovating a house. They were installing hardwood floors in a turn-of-the-century brownstone. They were gueststarring on Home Improvement. I know that show hasn't been on the air in 10 years, but you get the idea.

I went home for Thanksgiving and arrived at my parents' house to find the place empty, so I decided to buy a bottle of wine to pass the time. I went to Piggly Wiggly in search of pinot grigio. The Pig's wine aisle leaves a lot to be desired. Actually, it's not even an aisle; it's two shelves tucked away in the corner of the store, like a child who's being punished. My decision as to what brand to choose was a quick one, as they only had one brand of pinot grigio: something called HRM Rex Goliath, which costs $6 and features a giant rooster on the label--the name and the label design, I have since learned, is a tribute to the legend of a 47-lb. rooster featured in the Texas circus-circuit over 100 years ago. Nothing screams "klassy" like a cheap bottle of wine that pays homage to a giant cock. Actually, purchasing and drinking said bottle screams "klassy" just as loud.

And so it came to pass. I took my wine home, and of course my non-drinking parents failed me yet again by not having a corkscrew. I texted my brother to see if he still had the generic Swiss Army knives we were given as children, to which he responded, "It's in my hiking backpack and covered in tuna." Fortunately, when I pinned him down on the specifics, it turned out that only the can opener tool on the knife had gotten tuna juice on it when he opened a can on his last camping trip. After washing the knife, I spent fifteen minutes using the poorly made corkscrew to get the even-more-poorly made cork out of the bottle.

By the time my family started arriving, I was down to the last glass in the bottle. If I had eaten lunch, I probably would been unaffected, but since I hadn't eaten in nine hours, I was tipsy. My parents arrived, and so did my brother and his quasi-girlfriend--a lovely girl, but a cross-clutching Christian who had been home-schooled and who I imagine has lived a sheltered life.

After introductions, the girl sat on my parents' couch as Mom made smalltalk with her. Mom asked "So what do you think of Hayden's beard? He's doing that No-Shave November."

"So am I," I said with a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin across my clean-shaven face. I had already told Mom the joke about my balls, as I enjoy horrifying her as much as possible without getting taken off my parents' payroll. Immediately, she whipped her head around: "Jeffrey! That's enough out of you!" The girl sat confused as I laughed and Mom struggled to quickly change the subject.

I knew better than to say anything more, but in my heart, that's who I am: an inappropriate person who enjoys pushing the boundaries. Case in point: my friend texted me a few weeks ago while waiting on her friend to get an early-morning abortion. We made some fun jokes: "And I thought Folgers was the best part of waking up." "It's like having a parasite removed." "Too bad it's not like tick that you can get rid of by burning it with an extinguished match and pulling it off with tweezers." God knows, I have a high tolerance for the dark and dirty, but even I had a twinge of sadness. I love abortion jokes in the abstract--they're my favorite kind after handjob jokes--but picturing my friend sitting in a waiting room thumbing through a faded issue of Time magazine while her slutty, irresponsible friend's fetus was scraped and sucked like an oyster was a little too real for me. The discussion left me very disenchanted with the whole subject. It was as if she had aborted Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

But I digress. My drunken night wasn't the only story to come out of my Thanksgiving trip home for Thanksgiving. As we all know by now, my mother is insane. If I ever say anything about being old or single, she immediately rushes in with, "You're only 24! That's not old!" But unprovoked, she loves to initiate conversations about my romantic life--or lack thereof. While decorating for Christmas the night before I returned to Savannah, she said, "We could hang another stocking if you found someone to date before Christmas." I guess that was supposed to be some incentive for me; maybe Mom thought I'd be excited about the possibility of this girl sharing all the candy that would be in stocking with me. "Mom, even I could find someone to date SOON, I couldn't do it before Christmas; that's less than a month away." "So? I got your father in less than a month." "Yes, Mom, but unlike you, I can't fake a pregnancy scare." Boom! Shutdown!

Look, here's the deal: in my family--especially my extended family--you're either a dumbass or a smartass. Everyone plays the hand they're dealt, and fortunately, I was dealt a Royal Flush when it came to being a smartass. What's worse, is that in addition to having a smartmouth, I'm actually well-read and aware of current events, which just makes me all the more obnoxious. Comments like calling my No-Shave Novembering brother "Hayden bin Laden" and responding to my mother's claims that he runs a lot with "From who? The Department of Homeland Security?" roll off my tongue. I have low self-esteem. I don't like not being the funniest person in the room, and fortunately, it's rare that I'm not. Also fortunate is that my brother is a hilarious smartass like me, but not quite as funny as me; he has morals and standards and considers some things "off-limits" and "sacred"--conditions that affect me less often than I get the flu. So when he immediately came back from my first "Hayden bin Laden" comment by calling me "Drew Carey"--because of my new Buddy Holly-style glasses--my heart swelled with pride. Maybe I never taught him about how to talk to girls, and maybe I never showed him how to tie a tie, but, damn it, he learned how to make someone feel worthless with a backhanded compliment delivered in a sarcastic tone at the feet of the master. I'm, of course, referring to our mother, but I like to think he learned a little from me too. :)