Drip. Drip. Drip.

Another holiday has arrived...Christmas Eve. It seems like Thanksgiving was just upon us yesterday, force-feeding us globs of mashed potatoes and chunks of oven-baked turkey. It seems like just this afternoon that I was sprawled out on the couch, the button of my pants about ready to pop off and missile fire at some unsuspecting victim (and I would be too comatose to even care). Yes, didn't we just do the holiday thing? But alas, here we are again, ready for Round 2. And this time I'll have my stretchy pants.

Thinking back on Thanksgiving, however, brings to memory one particular Turkey Day that, to this day, never fails to bring a wicked smile to my face.

We had just built our house, and the extended family was gathered inside preparing our first feast under our new roof. The house was so new that the light fixtures in the kitchen had yet to have the caulking placed around them, leaving large rings of space around each canister of light. Underneath the brilliance of the new fixtures, the women of the house hustled and bustled around, stirring this, whipping that, and chopping who knows what. A bowl of perfectly crafted stuffing sat done and steaming on the kitchen counter, ready for salivating mouths to devour it. The gravy and the mashed potatoes were nearing their completion, as well. While this all went on, however,  something else was happening upstairs...

There are still disputes about who it was. Some claim it was me. I claim it was my brother. Either way, the fact is that it was done. Someone used the upstairs bathroom directly above the kitchen. And, like what happens every now and then in a living, breathing household, the person using the toilet clogged it. In his/her attempt to unplug it, it began to overflow, brown poopy water pouring out over the sides. And unfortunately, the construction guys hadn't gotten around to caulking around the toilets either...

As the food began to stack up on the kitchen counter, waiting for someone to take it all the festively decorated dining room table, I sat at the bar, taking it all in, my mouth already watering for what was about to come. Suddenly I felt a drip. And a drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. I looked up and noticed a steady stream of water dripping from the ceiling, landing squarely on the bowl of well-seasoned stuffing. I looked closer. The water was dirty. In a sudden realization of horror, I looked one more time at the ceiling and dashed upstairs to the bathroom. When I opened the door, I saw the catastrophe - a flood the size of the Pakistan disaster graced the blue and white tiled floor. Chunks floated throughout it. I gagged, closed the door, and then fell to the ground in an unontrollabe fit of laughter. Finally, after about 15 minutes of body convulsions with little sound coming out, I made my way downstairs. By this time, others had noticed the dripping and were frantically moving the food off the counter and sopping up the puddles. "It's POOOOOOOOOP!" I yelled, squealing, and again breaking into a fit of giglgles. If repulsion had a face, it would have been smacked across every single person in that kitchen. And then the chorus of laughter began, until it reverberated throughout the entire house.

It could probably go unsaid that we did not end up eating the stuffing that year. Many were even reluctant to touch the rest of the food out fear of cholera. That week the bathroom got caulked, and the light fixtures in the kitchen were finished. And a holiday has never passed since that I haven't remembered the secret ingredient to a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner. Drip. Drip. Drip.