After some considerable soul-searching, intensive therapy, and even a bit of hypnotic regression (only kidding about most of it), I think I might have figured out the root of my daytime talk show resentment. (Maury, I really hope that by now you’re not only a regular reader but also certain of your exemption from any of my rantings.)
When I was younger, we often didn’t have a lot of family around for the holidays, so my mom liked to spend Thanksgiving at the beach. No fuss about cooking or cleaning up, and, in case you missed it the first time around, we were at the freakin’ beach. (I don’t know why I used the word “freakin.’”I know it’s not cool. But, now that I’ve typed it, I just can’t take it back.) It was usually still warm enough to take walks down the shore and swim at the indoor pool. Plus, Thanksgiving at a huge hotel buffet can be pretty great, especially when you’re a kid and dessert gets its own table.
Anyway, one year I didn’t feel so well right before we left, which I think was the Tuesday night before Turkey Day. But, I didn’t want to say anything because I really wanted to go to the beach. So, unfortunately for my parents, by Thursday night I was running a ridiculously high fever, had a nasty cough, and couldn’t keep anything down. Plus, add to that fun that my sisters were starting to come down with symptoms, too. We all figured that hopefully it was a brief bug that would pass.
But, Thursday night I drifted off to sleep, and due to my high fever, started having one of the most vivid dreams ever. Only, at the time, I didn’t know it was a dream. I thought it was real. I woke up convinced that someone was out to get me. I was fighting off an invisible person and screaming, “Geraldo ate my turkey! Geraldo ate my turkey!”
Yep, it seems that my hallucination combined Geraldo Rivera (who my dad had been watching before I fell asleep) and Thanksgiving tradition. (What can I say? I have always been an overachiever.) Pop culture and wholesome holiday fun, together, at last -- too bad it terrified me. It terrified my parents too, so the next day, we had to go on a hunt for a doctor working in a seasonal town on a holiday weekend.
We didn’t find a doctor. We found a homeopath named Dr. Funk who had minimal medical training but was willing to do strep tests. And for my father, who loves traditional Western medicine with the fervor of any good insurance defense attorney, having to visit a homeopath is the equivalent of trusting fairies to pay your yearly taxes. So, even though my sisters and I didn’t have strep and we eventually got better, the “health scare” was too much for my father. We never went back to the beach for Thanksgiving again. There just wasn’t an adequate medical community in case of emergency.
And, honestly, I have hated Geraldo ever since. As irrational as it may be, I actually feel like he did steal my turkey. And, even though he obviously didn’t, in many ways, he did ruin my Thanksgiving. Maybe that’s why I can’t look at anyone walking amidst their audience and asking intentionally inflammatory questions without feeling some anger. Or, maybe that anger has something to do with those intentionally inflammatory questions ... Nah, I prefer to blame the Geraldo hallucination.
So, what’s greatest about this story? It’s too weird not to be true. And, if I’ll put this on the internet, I really might not have any shame.
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