Two days til GRAVY day.

Oh, pardon me. THANKSGIVING. But allow me to be completely frank with you. For my entire life, I have had one very strong belief about the Thanksgiving holiday: Anything put on my plate is an excuse to eat more gravy. Gravy is truly the nectar of the gods in my tryptophan-soaked mind. Brown, luscious, covering the most mundane Stove Top of stuffings, gravy truly makes everything better.

I was spoiled growing up. You see, my grandma makes the world's best gravy. It is a proven truth. Much of my childhood was spent fighting Auntie Em for a first taste of Grandma's groovy gravy (oooh, I know how I shall market it if ever I have the chance!). She was determined that she was the "official gravy tester." I begged to differ. I suppose, given her seniority in the house, she was really the original official tester. (PLEASE NOTE, AUNTIE EM, I WILL NEVER ADMIT THIS TO YOUR FACE.)

Two Thanksgivings ago, I was charged with the task: make the gravy for the "Orphan" Thanksgiving my friends and I had assembled. (No, we are not all orphans, we just chose to stay in the city rather than traveling home for the holiday.) I called my grandma, listened to her instructions and took copious notes. Y'know what? It just wasn't the same. I was very sad. Last year, I don't even remember the gravy for the Thanksgiving feast I had prepared for myself and P.I.C. That can't be good.

This year, I have been charged with making the actual turkey for our "Functional Friend Thanksgiving Feast" (working title). Therefore, I shall try my hand at the gravy once again. Please keep your fingers crossed for me. Gravy can rectify just about anything. Dry turkey, canned cranberry sauce (OK, so this is my favorite) or stuffing, which I don't even like.

Please pray for me, and my friends. I want to give them a gravy...I mean, TURKEY, for which they can truly be thankful.

Inappropriate.

Tonight, as I continued to feverishly work through Season One of Glee (and yes, I am also current on Season Two...), Quinn began to sing "Papa Don't Preach" by Madonna. I often forget that I loved this song when I was about seven years old. You see, my mom's youngest sister (Auntie Em) was only ten years older than I. She was, to put it mildly, the coolest person in my world. Auntie Em loved Madonna. That meant a darling little buck-toothed seven year-old Fabulously Awkward loved Madonna too.

"Papa Don't Preach" was one of my very favorite Madonna songs. In fact, I recall going through some of my mom's keepsakes several years ago to one of my little "All About Me" books I had filled out when I was in second grade. According to that, I always wanted to play the flute and my favorite song was "Papa Don't Preach." (As an aside, I did end up playing the flute. I did not, however, have any unfortunate pregnancies. Yay, me!)

But really, that song is about some seriously deep issues. "I'm keeping my baby." Yeah. Rather inappropriate for a seven year-old. Yet I still retain some very vivid memories of singing the shit out of that song. I'm pretty sure I would braid my hair to get it nice and kinky. Madonna didn't have flat hair in the 80s, that's for sure. I fully intended to be a mini-Madonna. Lace gloves and all. (I also turned my First Communion lace gloves into fingerless Madonna gloves. I find that ironic on several levels.) Ya know, except not have to beg my father for forgiveness for my illegitimate baby that I was carrying through song. I don't think I planned on that in my Madonna transformation.

This was like me, only I was mini.
(I lifted this photo cuz it's awesome. Thanks  crazyhorsewoman.blogspot.com!)

Along those of inappropriate childhood fanaticism, I believe that most girls in my generation grew up with a rather fervent love of the movie Dirty Dancing. "Nobody puts baby in a corner," right? I remember reciting it word for word from a very young age. And the part where her dad says, "You looked wonderful out there" gets me EVERY. TIME. Sadly, we also probably all remember the age were when we realized what happened to Penny. A little bit of innocence was lost on that day, I'm sure.

I'm pretty sure I have the time of my life every time I watch this movie. It's embarrassing, I know.

How about the movie Grease? That movie is rife with sexual tension and innuendos. No matter to my young eyes and ears, I sang along and wish I could be one of the Pink Ladies. Who didn't, right? Then you realized what "knocked up" meant and went..."Oooh." I think then I might have even thought, "Gross."

Tell me about it. Stud. (I use that line occasionally.)

So, yes, Glee reminded me that I still know every single word to "Papa Don't Preach." It also made me realize that I loved the most inappropriate things from a very young age. Glad to see that I retain some characteristics from my youth. Even at thirty. years. old. Sigh. I feel old.