Two lumps of coal for one, please

I was standing in Harvey's kitchen when it hit me. We were having a "Friendsgiving." Harvey went to the grocery store the day after Thanksgiving and bought a 16 lb turkey for a whopping $4.00, making me wonder why we don't eat the day after every year. Helen had just walked in from the garage carrying a clear plastic container holding the complete series of Friends on DVD. "There's enough Thanksgiving episodes on here to watch," she chirped and I laughed at her ingenuity: Friends on Friendsgiving.

None of us seemed to mind the extra meal. With this one we at least didn't feel guilty when we got drunk on wine. No tension with mothers or brothers or something-in-laws, just good food, alcohol, Friends on DVD, and the newly released Rock Band (like Guitar Hero, but also has a drum kit and a microphone that measures both the accuracy of your words and the tone of your voice. It was karaoke meets Guitar Hero, which in my world is bliss.)

Harvey handed me another glass of red wine, "So how many Thanksgivings is this for you?"

I laughed. Scott and I are the only couple who both have divorced parents. "This makes three. We went to Scott's mother's for lunch, then we drove my mother's for dinner. Now we're here. We got so tired that we combined our fathers since they live in the same city. So when we get up early tomorrow to do Thanksgiving— again— Scott's father is coming over to my father's house."

"Have they met before?"

"No and... OH SHIT!"

Both Scott and Harvey turned around, "What?"

"Argh! Scott's dad knows we live together, but my dad doesn't!"

Harvey doubled over laughing at my anguish. "Can I come tomorrow? And can I bring a camera?"

In the car on the drive home, I meekly asked Scott if his dad would be cool if he asked him not to bring it up. He said it wouldn't be a problem. Only when his dad had been talking to my dad for a few minutes during Thanksgiving dinner #4, I asked Scott if he told his dad, and of course he forgot. "If you think my dad would be angry about cohabitating, you just wait until he finds out from a stranger at Thanksgiving!" I hissed.

Scott got up and took his dad and step-mom aside and the crisis was averted. For now. My father is expecting an invite to see my apartment before Christmas. Not telling them is one thing, but sneaking around like this—this isn't good. It's not that I'm opposed to sneaking around; I'm just not very good at it. I would totally be for it if I knew I could pull it off. Not to mention that I'm rapidly growing tired of the schemes. I'm resolved to tell them he's moved in.

After Christmas.

You know, after I get my presents.