thanksgiving

Turkeymas 2007

2007-11-25T20:26:55+00:00

Through rain and hellish traffic, the 4-hour drive to Brian and Suzan's took just over 5.5 hours. We were grateful to have arrived there safe and sound, regardless of the hour. I love Thanksgivings with them, because it's a Thanksgiving of introversion; you don't have to sneak off to take time for yourself or make phone calls or just be alone. It's understood and encouraged, and I took advantage of it.

Brian ushered me into the computer room to hear something he had recorded. What started out as a normal audio blurb for his podcast turned into a recording of his reading of my admittedly batshit-insane entry, 'The Legend of Turkeymas.'

Or, as I said a few times that night, I'm not going to be able to live that entry down any time soon. What can I say? The level of insanity in the IT department was high on the day before Thanksgiving ... er, Turkeymas.

My photos trailed off as the day went on and I began to run out of social steam. I was glad of dinner, but watching and hearing my friends play Rock Band reminded me of something I should keep in mind for the future: karaoke makes my skin crawl. I don't know why I react so adversely, but I do. I found it easier to stay in the back room with my checked-out copy of Flatland, which I raced through much more quickly than I expected.

The next day was harder, but that's the next entry. Know this: Brian Richardson makes one hell of a good turkey. Photos are here:

The legend of Turkeymas

2007-11-21T22:00:07+00:00

Have you ever wondered where your holiday traditions come from? I think we should make sure our children know the REAL reason for our holidays...

In a village not so long ago (maybe the 1960s) and not very far away (somewhere around Cleveland) there was a brave adventurer who decided to buck the centuries of oppression by cruel dinosaur overlords. Lacking true tools with which to fight, he engendered a cunning way to turn the dinosaurs into fossils using only eggnog and holly branches, thus leaving the Great Pumpkin Holiday in peace and theoretically guaranteeing the sheeplike populace a full month of stress-free retail shopping between the Festival of Halloween and Jewish Guy's Birthday.

Amidst the swirling autumn leaves, St. Nicholas of Cleveland stopped off at a restaurant to give Arlo Guthrie some weed (thus inspiring the 17-minute opus "Alice's Restaurant" in his honor) before going off to do battle with the dinosaur overloads. The cruelest and meanest of them all, the dreaded fanged Turkeysaurus giganticus, were known for their amazing ninja fighting skills.

Faced with poor surroundings (hello, Ohio?) and an encroaching tide of eggnog, the last few remaining Turkeysaurus giganticii retaliated with only the weapons they had on hand. They stitched projectiles out of skin left over from the wild boar they had devoured earlier in the day, threw thorn-studded corncobs, and set off sweet potato bombs.

After destroying the last army, St. Nicholas of Cleveland placed the head of the defeated Turkeysaurus general on a pike and marched it down a town square the villagers built in his honor. In the center of the square he roasted the general on a pike, ripping out the wishbone to prove that humankind would be oppressed no more.

Here endeth the history lesson.

why I married him

2007-11-18T20:02:15+00:00

Sarcastically muttered near the peanut butter: "Holy shit! Thanksgiving is this week? Why the hell didn't anyone tell me? When did this start getting scheduled in late November?"

Seriously, just don't go to grocery stores the Sunday before Thanksgiving. It's an ugly sight. Rows and rows of SUVs in parking limbo outside while their owners do something that has a lot in common with scurrying, without the 'movement' part and with lots more 'blocking the cereal aisle and access to all the milk because Hubby Dearest doesn't know whether Wifey Dearest wanted 2% or 1% or whole milk and what the hell is acidophilus, anyway?'

You could practically hear the screams of anguished housewives: "WHERE IS THE CONDENSED MILK! I MUST HAVE CONDENSED MILK OR MY THANKSGIVING IS RUINED!"

It's like Kabuki theatre, but with yams.

After we filled our hand-carried basket of items for the next few days, we realized that we only needed a few more items, so we split up. "You go get the chicken. I'll get the cereal and I'll meet you over in the produce aisle." A few minutes and a bag of Brussels sprouts later (Why are you looking at me like that? we LIKE Brussels sprouts!) we were both desirous of a speedy exit.

As we were walking away, I said, "You know what would be awesome? Grocery store terrorism. Go over by the frozen foods and yell, 'Oh my God, they're out of turkey!'"

Jeff paused for a moment and shook his head. "No, there's a better way. Don't yell that. Yell 'Oh my God, there are only two turkeys left!' Then watch the stampede."

I nodded to myself as we passed the cheese counter. "I knew I married you for a reason."

smell the paint drying

2004-11-28T18:02:42+00:00

I tiptoed back early from Jeff's family's Thanksgiving celebrations, in order to do the house chore I'd been putting off for a month. I'd had a gallon of light blue paint sitting on the back floorboard of my car for a month, and it had been quietly taunting me every time I saw it."You don't have the time or energy to paint with me, do you?"

Every time I got in my car the week of Thanksgiving, I stuck my tongue out at it.

Thursday afternoon, comfortably sleepy on turkey and "fixins" -- although, I might add, at about zero vegetables for the day -- I made myself a plate of Thanksgiving food to go, wrapped it in foil, and drove home. Jeff needed to stay another night at his parents' to work on their computers (it wouldn't be a major holiday for geeks if we didn't work on someone's computer) and I was determined to get this painting done.

Off day, you see. An enforced off day at that.

I'm still working out six days per week, and doing both swims and elliptical work each day if I can manage it. Truthfully, most days, I can. However, I was having trouble finding the time and the energy to tape up the guest bedroom and get it painted.

So, I reasoned, if I'm too tired, then that means I have to do it on an off day. Most of those fall on weekends, which would suck for Jeff, because he'd have to smell the paint drying. Why not do it the day after Thanksgiving? Everything's closed, no one will be here, and there will be no one to grump about it but me and the cats.

So, the night of Thanksgiving, I warmed up my carefully-transported leftovers and ate them on the couch, talking to Edmund all the while. Afterward, I popped open the canister of blue paint and got to work.

For two nights in a row I slept with blue spots in my hair.

It's Sunday now. The cats are still deeply distrustful of how "their" room smells now. Jeff is home, having done his familial computer duties. Principal painting is done; all that remains is to take the edge tape down, touch up whatever bad spots I find, re-hang the bookshelves, and put the books back in their places.

A good thing, because the gym work starts back in earnest today. Three days off helped; the persistent tightness in my calves has eased a bit, and I'm curious to see how that will affect my swimming.

* * * * *

I'd love to lay off another day, but that's laziness taking a minor paint-based case of the sniffles and blowing its severity all out of proportion. Some days I love the gym work because of what it's done for me, and some days I really just want to sit on the couch, eat Triscuits, watch TV with Jeff and pull Tenzing's tail.

Today, those Triscuits look somewhere between heavenly and exquisite … but the calendar blares at me: fifty days until I fly!

I didn't set any major goals, because I wasn't going to cancel the trip if I didn't meet them. I deliberately chose to do these two-a-day workouts in the hope of putting myself in the best possible shape prior to flying out on January 16. (Not just for weight loss, but for cardio strength as well; the altitude difference between Alabama and Colorado is always rough on me.) My appearance and weight when I get on the plane that day will be what they will be. The end weight loss is not totally within my control, but my diligence in working out, and my attention to eating properly, are.

It's not all panic and sweat, though. It's starting to sink in that this is my major trip of the year, and how in the world am I going to pack for three height-of-winter weeks in Colorado and Utah high country?

This is gonna get interesting.

For now, though, it's time to head to the pool. The water's calling me, and my swimsuit hasn't been wet since Wednesday. It's time to fix that.

Paint photos soon.

Thanksknitting 2003

2003-11-30T08:34:30+00:00

Somewhere between the second episode of The Muppet Show and my fourth orange-flavored drink, courtesy of Brian, I began to realize that this Thanksgiving holiday thing might have some merit, after all. Given another couple of episodes and another fizzy drink or two, I might even start singing the praises of this holiday. Scratch that. Thanksgiving == good. A pity Thomas and Danielle fled before the evening got really amusing.There comes a moment in life when you realize that you're no longer one of 'us,' the well-defined counterculture with something to rebel against, but instead one of 'them.' The culture. The people being rebelled against. My moment came early on Thanksgiving evening, during the blissful purring haze brought on by a simultaneous scalp and back massage performed by two electrical engineers, an AMI engineer and a Georgia Tech professor, neither of whom was my spouse. Any momentary questions about when professors stopped being Them, and became ordinary folk I could laugh with and watch Daria episodes with, went away with a sudden need to have my scalp massaged just a little more to the left. Judging by the laughter, apparently my face and whimpering noises were a sight to behold. (Hey, Brian, can I schedule another one of those for next year? Unless something almost inexpressibly fabulous happens in December, that was officially the highlight of my year.) I blame the aftereffects of the lovely dual massage for the complete desertion of my sanity this morning, when I made my semi-annual trek to the yarn store and walked out a short while later in a bit of a daze. Sock yarn? Why the hell did I buy sock yarn? I don't even know how to make socks! Apparently, I'm going to learn. * * * * * For those of you who asked, I've finished Heather's scarf. It's of two skeins of Noro Silk Garden, color #8, with the skeins knitted A:B::B:A to get matching ends. (a photo) I was rather pleased with the results. The kind folks at Ye Local Knitting Emporium confirm that the TSA has surreptitiously grown a clue, and now allows passengers to bring knitting needles on board aircraft. It appears that on Wednesday, as I wing my way from Birmingham to Phoenix, I'll be able to work on this scarf. Excellent. Just excellent. If only I didn't have so much to do before Wednesday morning's flight...

External Independent Familial Unit™

2003-11-27T09:44:32+00:00

Three hours and fifteen minutes into Thanksgiving, I'm playing a nearly-inaudible set of songs over Winamp, cursing my nocturnal habits, and wondering just when the heck I'm ever going to grow up enough to have holidays at my own house.

Southern families have rules. Nobody bothers writing them down, because why waste paper writing down the obvious? These things are all on the same level of obviousness:

Left shoe goes on left foot. Right shoe goes on right foot. There should be no leftovers, either of shoes or of feet.
When someone dies, don't send flowers. Send casseroles.
You're coming home for the holidays, and don't give us any lip about it either.

So what's the dividing line, exactly? What causes the change in stature from Scion Of Existing Family to External Independent Familial Unit? When is it not just accepted, but expected, that your holidays will be spent under your own roof?

I thought it was kids, but maybe not; I have too many memories of truly riotous Christmases spent running rampant with my motley collection of cousins. Within reason, everyone came home for Christmas (and, to a lesser degree, Thanksgiving). Maybe it's kids + distance from the Original Familial Unit.

After all, as Kara will attest, no matter how good the munchkin, they don't adapt well to cross-country air travel.

Who knows? Either way, Jeff and I aren't at that point yet. We're still doing the holiday-splitting dance; it's like a bad game of Go Fish, except with lots of driving. ("I'll give you a seven-hundred mile drive for Thanksgiving if you'll give me the hundred-mile drive for Christmas...no? Go fish!")

We're bucking the trend a bit this year, and spending Thanksgiving with absolutely no one we're related to. Want proof of how ingrained Southern Family Rules are on my psyche? Know this - it was our decision to take up Brian & Suzan's offer of a "refugee Thanksgiving" and I still feel a smidge of guilt about not spending it with either family.

Mind you, it's the kind of guilt that makes me stay up an hour later than usual, and makes me make a note to call my mother tomorrow to wish her well. Not the kind of guilt that makes me call Brian and Suzan up in the middle of the night, confess my sins against the Southern Nuclear Family, and hie the hell home tomorrow morning in time for the noonday familial bingefest.

No, I'll go to Atlanta, eat the turkey, consume the alcohol, have a smashing good time and not regret a moment of it. How can anyone regret accepting an invitation worded this way:

1) Some of you can't go home for the holidays ... you have to work, your grandmother took the turkey recipe and ran off to the Cayman Islands with her yoga instructor, that restraining order won't let you within 500 feet of Uncle Ted.

2) Some of you would rather not go home to visit the family due to the fact that your family is there. No problem … Jerry Springer made it acceptable to come from a dysfunctional family.

3) Many of you have never had a Thanksgiving that involved a properly cooked turkey … a nice, juicy bird that didn't require 16 ounces of gravy and 12 ounces of beer to rehydrate.

We will eat. We will drink. We will game, and we will rejoice, even if we have to beat each other senseless with the nearest vodka bottle to do it.

As families go, that'll do.

An aside to the fellows in California: if I don't talk with you again before then, have a most excellent trip. Get those new memory cards for your camera broken in, 'cause we're gonna have to take a few photos while I visit....