The Prissy Princess and the Gallant Hero will soon head off to the Land of the Frozen Everything, the Midwest, to celebrate Christmas with the royal families. Therefore the blog probably will not appear for a couple of weeks, but take heart. All that time with the royals is bound to provide fresh, amusing material for the new year.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
When therapy is needed
Sometimes a loved one makes choices that can adversely affect the entire family and, if left unchecked, can lead to personal ruin. It is not easy to confront one in this situation, but sometimes we must choose to do what we know is right for the sake of everyone involved. I speak particularly of fashion faux pas.
My hair stylist's husband, by her account, is a sweet man, but woefully lacking in certain areas like fashion. She recently confided to me that he needed help in this department. "We had to have an...intervention with him," she said.
So she consulted with the best experts in men's fashions she could find: her two teenage daughters. "We told him we were taking him shopping for clothes, and we weren't going to Sears," she said.
This intervention seemed to consist mainly of two components:
1. Shut up.
2. Wear what we tell you.
The poor man was taken away to stores like Gap and Martin + Osa, which he had probably never set foot in, and forced to try on jeans that were actually quite flattering ("He looks so cute in his little Gap jeans").
The persuasive powers of three fashion-conscious women began to wear him down, and he gradually realized that he could not continue in his former lifestyle. After extensive shopping therapy sessions, he now stands proudly in front of the mirror, admiring his new confident, bold, and hip look. His wife and daughters can now proudly hold their heads high in public, with no trace of the shame that once threatened their social and emotional well-being.
If you are in a similar situation, may their story inspire you to take gentle but firm action with a loved one. And what better time of year to do it than now, with all the sales going on? No sense in paying more for therapy than necessary. And it may be the best present you could ever give.
My hair stylist's husband, by her account, is a sweet man, but woefully lacking in certain areas like fashion. She recently confided to me that he needed help in this department. "We had to have an...intervention with him," she said.
So she consulted with the best experts in men's fashions she could find: her two teenage daughters. "We told him we were taking him shopping for clothes, and we weren't going to Sears," she said.
This intervention seemed to consist mainly of two components:
1. Shut up.
2. Wear what we tell you.
The poor man was taken away to stores like Gap and Martin + Osa, which he had probably never set foot in, and forced to try on jeans that were actually quite flattering ("He looks so cute in his little Gap jeans").
The persuasive powers of three fashion-conscious women began to wear him down, and he gradually realized that he could not continue in his former lifestyle. After extensive shopping therapy sessions, he now stands proudly in front of the mirror, admiring his new confident, bold, and hip look. His wife and daughters can now proudly hold their heads high in public, with no trace of the shame that once threatened their social and emotional well-being.
If you are in a similar situation, may their story inspire you to take gentle but firm action with a loved one. And what better time of year to do it than now, with all the sales going on? No sense in paying more for therapy than necessary. And it may be the best present you could ever give.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Santa's debriefing
Santa's elves are busy debriefing Santa in preparation for his upcoming deliveries on Christmas Eve. Here they discuss the logistics of reaching a particular home in Maryland.
Elves: Now, Santa, this house is going to present some technical difficulties.
Santa: Like what?
Elves: Definitely don't try going down the chimney. They haven't had the fireplace restored yet and you'd probably bring the whole thing down. Plus, the fireplace opening is still sealed so it's a dead end.
Santa: You'd think they would have taken care of that before Christmas. Well, how about a window?
Elves (coughing discreetly): Uh, their windows aren't exactly accommodating for someone of your, uh, girth.
Santa (eyeing his girth and nodding): Okay, sounds like a door is the best way to go. Back? Front?
Elves (scratching their heads): Well, the front is probably best...if you went in the back you'd have to go up the stairs, and we don't think you'd fit up those, either.
Santa (eyeing his girth again and frowning): Okay, front door it is.
Elves: Now, sometimes they call the back the front, so don't get confused.
Santa (getting exasperated): How am I supposed to know the difference?
Elves: Well, the door you want is right off the street. Plus, they've hung a huge sign above it saying "SANTA ENTER HERE." That should help.
Santa: Okay, so I'm in the front door. What about the inside?
Elves: Open the door very carefully. They didn't have much room to put up the tree because they bought this new big couch, and they should have really replaced their big tree with a smaller one, but they didn't, so the tree and the couch are smooshed into the room and the couch is partially blocking the door.
Santa (stroking his beard thoughtfully): I like their Christmas spirit, keeping a big tree even when there's not much room for it.
Elves: Uh, actually, they liked the big tree because they figured you could fit more presents under it.
Santa (looking stern): How old did you say they were?
Elves: Old enough to buy a nice couch.
Santa: Right. Okay, what else?
Elves: Well, if you go into the kitchen looking for cookies, watch out for possible water on the floor. Their refrigerator is leaking.
Santa (smiling broadly): A little water won't stop me from getting to those cookies, ho-ho-ho!
Elves: They'll probably be gluten free.
Santa: Never mind.
Elves: Now, the good news is --
Santa: Thank goodness there's some good news.
Elves: They don't have any pets for you to worry about.
Santa (stroking his beard): Hmmm, no pets, that's kind of sad...maybe I should bring them a pet for Christmas.
Elves (looking at each other): Uh, they don't really want a pet.
Santa (looking stern again): Don't want a pet! Are you sure they're on the Nice List?
Elves (double-checking the list): Ye-e-e-s, although the man almost made it to the Provisional Naughty List. He was snooping around the presents his wife bought him.
Santa (shaking his head): So how did he stay off the Provisional Naughty List?
Elves: He said he confused Christmas presents with Easter egg hunts.
Santa: Tsk tsk.
Elves: Oh, one more thing. They want you to know they've been very, very good this year. Other than the, uh, snooping part, of course.
Santa: Can their claim be corroborated?
Elves (peering at the couple's file): Yes, they've given us a couple of character references, although the signatures are kind of hard to make out...looks like Gallant Hero and...Prissy Princess.
Santa (impressed): Well, it sounds like they have trustworthy friends in high places. On we go!
Elves: Now, Santa, this house is going to present some technical difficulties.
Santa: Like what?
Elves: Definitely don't try going down the chimney. They haven't had the fireplace restored yet and you'd probably bring the whole thing down. Plus, the fireplace opening is still sealed so it's a dead end.
Santa: You'd think they would have taken care of that before Christmas. Well, how about a window?
Elves (coughing discreetly): Uh, their windows aren't exactly accommodating for someone of your, uh, girth.
Santa (eyeing his girth and nodding): Okay, sounds like a door is the best way to go. Back? Front?
Elves (scratching their heads): Well, the front is probably best...if you went in the back you'd have to go up the stairs, and we don't think you'd fit up those, either.
Santa (eyeing his girth again and frowning): Okay, front door it is.
Elves: Now, sometimes they call the back the front, so don't get confused.
Santa (getting exasperated): How am I supposed to know the difference?
Elves: Well, the door you want is right off the street. Plus, they've hung a huge sign above it saying "SANTA ENTER HERE." That should help.
Santa: Okay, so I'm in the front door. What about the inside?
Elves: Open the door very carefully. They didn't have much room to put up the tree because they bought this new big couch, and they should have really replaced their big tree with a smaller one, but they didn't, so the tree and the couch are smooshed into the room and the couch is partially blocking the door.
Santa (stroking his beard thoughtfully): I like their Christmas spirit, keeping a big tree even when there's not much room for it.
Elves: Uh, actually, they liked the big tree because they figured you could fit more presents under it.
Santa (looking stern): How old did you say they were?
Elves: Old enough to buy a nice couch.
Santa: Right. Okay, what else?
Elves: Well, if you go into the kitchen looking for cookies, watch out for possible water on the floor. Their refrigerator is leaking.
Santa (smiling broadly): A little water won't stop me from getting to those cookies, ho-ho-ho!
Elves: They'll probably be gluten free.
Santa: Never mind.
Elves: Now, the good news is --
Santa: Thank goodness there's some good news.
Elves: They don't have any pets for you to worry about.
Santa (stroking his beard): Hmmm, no pets, that's kind of sad...maybe I should bring them a pet for Christmas.
Elves (looking at each other): Uh, they don't really want a pet.
Santa (looking stern again): Don't want a pet! Are you sure they're on the Nice List?
Elves (double-checking the list): Ye-e-e-s, although the man almost made it to the Provisional Naughty List. He was snooping around the presents his wife bought him.
Santa (shaking his head): So how did he stay off the Provisional Naughty List?
Elves: He said he confused Christmas presents with Easter egg hunts.
Santa: Tsk tsk.
Elves: Oh, one more thing. They want you to know they've been very, very good this year. Other than the, uh, snooping part, of course.
Santa: Can their claim be corroborated?
Elves (peering at the couple's file): Yes, they've given us a couple of character references, although the signatures are kind of hard to make out...looks like Gallant Hero and...Prissy Princess.
Santa (impressed): Well, it sounds like they have trustworthy friends in high places. On we go!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Christmas secret
Joe is refusing to tell me what he got me for Christmas, and it is driving him nuts.
Every year he is tortured by the knowledge that somewhere in our house sits the perfect gift for me, and he can't tell me what it is. Sometimes the burden of keeping this secret to himself for several weeks, or even several days, becomes too great, and he blurts it out.
This year his inner torture started early, right after Thanksgiving. With the air of one who is determined to reform his ways with respect to some crippling addiction, he announced, "I'm not going to tell you what I got you this year."
To his great disappointment, this did not bother me at all. "I like surprises," I told him.
"Well, just don't go looking for it," he warned.
"I don't want to go looking for it," I said.
Secretly he would love for me to find my gifts. Then this tremendous pressure to keep it a secret would be relieved, and it wouldn't even be his fault.
The general clutter in our house seems to expand greatly at this time of year, and Joe takes advantage of this by plunging the bags with my presents into the middle of this clutter, guessing that I will not attempt to deal with the clutter until January, when there is nothing else to do.
But ironically, I am MUCH more likely to stumble upon his carefully hidden cache by accident, simply by observing a bag where no bag normally resides, even amongst clutter, and saying to myself, "What is THIS doing here?" and looking inside to discover what the offending item could be, and then saying, "Oops." Whereas if he would just TELL me, "That bag legitimately belongs there, and contains the most awesome Christmas present ever given," I would never look inside.
To avoid such a catastrophe, I thought it prudent to ask him to tell me where he hid my present.
"Ah HA!" he said triumphantly. "You DO want to know what it is. Well, I'm not going to tell you."
"I don't want to know what it is," I said. "I just want to know where it is. That way if I see some strange bag somewhere I won't wonder what it is and look inside."
He said he was not born yesterday.
Of course he did not believe me, because when HE finds a suspicious-looking bag this time of year, his mind thinks: strange bag -- gift for me -- must peek. Whereas MY mind thinks: strange bag -- intruder -- must relocate and destroy if necessary.
But he is keeping to his resolution this year, and his lips are sealed about the contents and whereabouts of my present. So it looks like we'll both get what we want this Christmas: he, to surprise me; and me, to be surprised.
Every year he is tortured by the knowledge that somewhere in our house sits the perfect gift for me, and he can't tell me what it is. Sometimes the burden of keeping this secret to himself for several weeks, or even several days, becomes too great, and he blurts it out.
This year his inner torture started early, right after Thanksgiving. With the air of one who is determined to reform his ways with respect to some crippling addiction, he announced, "I'm not going to tell you what I got you this year."
To his great disappointment, this did not bother me at all. "I like surprises," I told him.
"Well, just don't go looking for it," he warned.
"I don't want to go looking for it," I said.
Secretly he would love for me to find my gifts. Then this tremendous pressure to keep it a secret would be relieved, and it wouldn't even be his fault.
The general clutter in our house seems to expand greatly at this time of year, and Joe takes advantage of this by plunging the bags with my presents into the middle of this clutter, guessing that I will not attempt to deal with the clutter until January, when there is nothing else to do.
But ironically, I am MUCH more likely to stumble upon his carefully hidden cache by accident, simply by observing a bag where no bag normally resides, even amongst clutter, and saying to myself, "What is THIS doing here?" and looking inside to discover what the offending item could be, and then saying, "Oops." Whereas if he would just TELL me, "That bag legitimately belongs there, and contains the most awesome Christmas present ever given," I would never look inside.
To avoid such a catastrophe, I thought it prudent to ask him to tell me where he hid my present.
"Ah HA!" he said triumphantly. "You DO want to know what it is. Well, I'm not going to tell you."
"I don't want to know what it is," I said. "I just want to know where it is. That way if I see some strange bag somewhere I won't wonder what it is and look inside."
He said he was not born yesterday.
Of course he did not believe me, because when HE finds a suspicious-looking bag this time of year, his mind thinks: strange bag -- gift for me -- must peek. Whereas MY mind thinks: strange bag -- intruder -- must relocate and destroy if necessary.
But he is keeping to his resolution this year, and his lips are sealed about the contents and whereabouts of my present. So it looks like we'll both get what we want this Christmas: he, to surprise me; and me, to be surprised.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Farewell to Monk
This weekend we hustled and bustled with a great many other people in our small historic town, enjoying Midnight Madness, which is basically a contest to see how many cars can be parked illegally in our parking-challenged town. We have attended Midnight Madness for several years now, and can say with some authority that this year a record must have been set, with cars parked on sidewalks, in driving lanes, on rooftops, in the river, etc.
This year we hustled more than usual in order to get home by 9 p.m. -- a far cry from midnight, we realize -- because that was when the series finale of Monk started. We have watched Monk with great faithfulness our entire marriage, shunning all obligations and invitations on Friday nights during the viewing season ("We regret that, due to a prior engagement, we cannot accept your most gracious invitation to dine at the White House this Friday. Feel free to invite us another time, just not on a Friday.").
We are more faithful in watching Monk than the mailman in his rounds (no offense to Jesse, our very pleasant and timely mail carrier), although I must confess that I do not like to watch the very beginning of each show, which usually consists of eerie music and someone being murdered in a particularly creative manner. I usually find something very urgent to do in another room during these few minutes, such as minutely examining my toothbrush for any sign of deterioration. After the dirty deed is done on the show I can safely return to the couch, and Joe tells me what I missed. His telling usually consists of "You don't want to know."
But now Monk is gone, and we are left with a great void in our Friday night entertainment schedule. We both may have to resort to examining our toothbrushes, or worse for Joe, playing "Bananagrams," which he detests but which does allow him to exercise his creative spelling skills.
On the other hand, positive things may come out of this change in our schedule. Over the years we've been watching Monk, we've noticed how eerily similar our behavior is to Monk's obsessive compulsiveness. As the opening song says, "People say I worry all time. If you paid attention, you'd be worried, too." Well, we've been paying a lot more attention since we started watching, and we are a lot more worried. Maybe now that the show is over, we can return to our pre-Monk state of being blissfully unconcerned about the many ways our world -- as the song further insists -- is trying to kill us.
So if anyone needs a couple of recovering obsessive-compulsive people to do something with on Fridays, we're available.
This year we hustled more than usual in order to get home by 9 p.m. -- a far cry from midnight, we realize -- because that was when the series finale of Monk started. We have watched Monk with great faithfulness our entire marriage, shunning all obligations and invitations on Friday nights during the viewing season ("We regret that, due to a prior engagement, we cannot accept your most gracious invitation to dine at the White House this Friday. Feel free to invite us another time, just not on a Friday.").
We are more faithful in watching Monk than the mailman in his rounds (no offense to Jesse, our very pleasant and timely mail carrier), although I must confess that I do not like to watch the very beginning of each show, which usually consists of eerie music and someone being murdered in a particularly creative manner. I usually find something very urgent to do in another room during these few minutes, such as minutely examining my toothbrush for any sign of deterioration. After the dirty deed is done on the show I can safely return to the couch, and Joe tells me what I missed. His telling usually consists of "You don't want to know."
But now Monk is gone, and we are left with a great void in our Friday night entertainment schedule. We both may have to resort to examining our toothbrushes, or worse for Joe, playing "Bananagrams," which he detests but which does allow him to exercise his creative spelling skills.
On the other hand, positive things may come out of this change in our schedule. Over the years we've been watching Monk, we've noticed how eerily similar our behavior is to Monk's obsessive compulsiveness. As the opening song says, "People say I worry all time. If you paid attention, you'd be worried, too." Well, we've been paying a lot more attention since we started watching, and we are a lot more worried. Maybe now that the show is over, we can return to our pre-Monk state of being blissfully unconcerned about the many ways our world -- as the song further insists -- is trying to kill us.
So if anyone needs a couple of recovering obsessive-compulsive people to do something with on Fridays, we're available.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Company descends into Ice Age
Today we bring you breaking news from a company in northern Maryland, where employees have reportedly entered an Ice Age....
Jane: We've received reports that a company in Maryland, known only as C______, has apparently entered into some type of Ice Age. It was discovered early this morning by a vendor of the company when he attempted to make a delivery. Let's go live now to our reporter, Bill. Bill?
Bill: Jane, this appears to be some sort of bizarre environmental catastrophe. The inside of the building, and everything here, is just encased in ice. We had to hack our way in.
Jane: What about the employees? Do you see anyone?
Bill: So far every employee seems to be frozen in place, most at their computers. This Ice Age seems to have come on gradually; we can see evidence of the employees' pitiful attempts to generate some heat...most are wearing sweaters or jackets, many have gloves on (which are frozen to the computer keyboards), there are even some with hats and scarves on and blankets around them. Here's one employee with an assortment of mugs on her desk...looks like she was drinking a lot of hot beverages to try to stay warm.
Jane: Anything else, Bill?
Bill: Well, if you look below the desks here (camera pans in), many apparently brought in their own heaters or heating pads in an effort to stave off freezing to death. We also found a few bodies huddled together around the copy machine...we're not sure why...
Jane: Maybe they were trying to get some warmth from the papers when they came out?
Bill: Poor souls.
(There is a moment of silence.)
Jane: Do you see anyone not frozen, Bill?
Bill: Oh, here's one gentlemen who appears to have survived whatever happened here. Excuse me, sir?
Gentleman (looking dazed): Hmmm?
Bill: Uh, sir, are you an employee here?
Confused gentleman: Uh, yeah...
Bill: Sir, can you tell us what happened here? Amid concerns of global warming, how is it possible that this building appears to have entered some sort of Ice Age?
Confused gentleman: I...I just don't understand it...they kept saying it was cold, so I turned the heat up a few times...I mean, I turned it up all the way to 18 degrees yesterday...I just don't know what happened... (wanders off to check the thermostat, which is frosted over)
Bill: We've spotted another live employee, you can just see her at the edge of the camera there...it's difficult to keep her in focus, she's -- it looks like she's leaping around, and she appears to be wearing -- is she wearing a bathing suit?
Jane: Someone in a 18-degree building is wearing a bathing suit?
Bill: Hold on, let's see if we can talk to her...excuse me...Ma'am...MA'AM! CAN WE TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE? (running to catch up with the leaping woman) Ma'am, your building is in an Ice Age. (pausing to catch breath) Why are you running around in a bathing suit?
Leaping Woman (obviously euphoric): Isn't this fantastic? It's only 23 degrees in here!
Bill: Actually, it's only 18...we think. The thermostat is encased in ice.
Leaping Woman: Even better! (continuing to leap in ecstasy)
Bill: Uh, are you aware that most of your co-workers have been frozen in place?
Leaping Woman: The fools! They kept stupidly complaining it was too cold in here, when it was like a sauna! Thank goodness D_____ kept the thermostat at a decent temperature! Now I can finally concentrate on my work!
Bill (looking at the Leaping Woman's cubicle): But your computer is frozen.
Leaping Woman (ceasing her leaping for the first time): Oh. Well, no matter! I'll just work at home, where it's a balmy 25 degrees! La, la, la! (She leaps out of camera range.)
Bill (shaking his head): Well, that's all we know for now, Jane. Whether or not these poor employees can be revived is questionable. In fact, we need to get out of here ourselves before WE freeze to death.
Jane: Thank you, Bill. That concludes for now our story on C______, a company in Maryland, where a strange Ice Age has descended on the building. We will bring you further updates when more is known.
(Leaping Woman suddenly leaps across the screen): Join me on my crusade to ban thermostats that go higher than 31 degrees! (She is removed, with difficulty, by station employees.) La, la la!
Jane: We've received reports that a company in Maryland, known only as C______, has apparently entered into some type of Ice Age. It was discovered early this morning by a vendor of the company when he attempted to make a delivery. Let's go live now to our reporter, Bill. Bill?
Bill: Jane, this appears to be some sort of bizarre environmental catastrophe. The inside of the building, and everything here, is just encased in ice. We had to hack our way in.
Jane: What about the employees? Do you see anyone?
Bill: So far every employee seems to be frozen in place, most at their computers. This Ice Age seems to have come on gradually; we can see evidence of the employees' pitiful attempts to generate some heat...most are wearing sweaters or jackets, many have gloves on (which are frozen to the computer keyboards), there are even some with hats and scarves on and blankets around them. Here's one employee with an assortment of mugs on her desk...looks like she was drinking a lot of hot beverages to try to stay warm.
Jane: Anything else, Bill?
Bill: Well, if you look below the desks here (camera pans in), many apparently brought in their own heaters or heating pads in an effort to stave off freezing to death. We also found a few bodies huddled together around the copy machine...we're not sure why...
Jane: Maybe they were trying to get some warmth from the papers when they came out?
Bill: Poor souls.
(There is a moment of silence.)
Jane: Do you see anyone not frozen, Bill?
Bill: Oh, here's one gentlemen who appears to have survived whatever happened here. Excuse me, sir?
Gentleman (looking dazed): Hmmm?
Bill: Uh, sir, are you an employee here?
Confused gentleman: Uh, yeah...
Bill: Sir, can you tell us what happened here? Amid concerns of global warming, how is it possible that this building appears to have entered some sort of Ice Age?
Confused gentleman: I...I just don't understand it...they kept saying it was cold, so I turned the heat up a few times...I mean, I turned it up all the way to 18 degrees yesterday...I just don't know what happened... (wanders off to check the thermostat, which is frosted over)
Bill: We've spotted another live employee, you can just see her at the edge of the camera there...it's difficult to keep her in focus, she's -- it looks like she's leaping around, and she appears to be wearing -- is she wearing a bathing suit?
Jane: Someone in a 18-degree building is wearing a bathing suit?
Bill: Hold on, let's see if we can talk to her...excuse me...Ma'am...MA'AM! CAN WE TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE? (running to catch up with the leaping woman) Ma'am, your building is in an Ice Age. (pausing to catch breath) Why are you running around in a bathing suit?
Leaping Woman (obviously euphoric): Isn't this fantastic? It's only 23 degrees in here!
Bill: Actually, it's only 18...we think. The thermostat is encased in ice.
Leaping Woman: Even better! (continuing to leap in ecstasy)
Bill: Uh, are you aware that most of your co-workers have been frozen in place?
Leaping Woman: The fools! They kept stupidly complaining it was too cold in here, when it was like a sauna! Thank goodness D_____ kept the thermostat at a decent temperature! Now I can finally concentrate on my work!
Bill (looking at the Leaping Woman's cubicle): But your computer is frozen.
Leaping Woman (ceasing her leaping for the first time): Oh. Well, no matter! I'll just work at home, where it's a balmy 25 degrees! La, la, la! (She leaps out of camera range.)
Bill (shaking his head): Well, that's all we know for now, Jane. Whether or not these poor employees can be revived is questionable. In fact, we need to get out of here ourselves before WE freeze to death.
Jane: Thank you, Bill. That concludes for now our story on C______, a company in Maryland, where a strange Ice Age has descended on the building. We will bring you further updates when more is known.
(Leaping Woman suddenly leaps across the screen): Join me on my crusade to ban thermostats that go higher than 31 degrees! (She is removed, with difficulty, by station employees.) La, la la!
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thanksgiving secrets
The holidays can be stressful, and sometimes they trigger long-suppressed, painful memories. This Thanksgiving I finally decided to take a step toward personal healing, and revealed to Joe a well-hidden family tragedy surrounding Thanksgiving.
"You know how in most families, everyone takes a nap after Thanksgiving dinner?" I said.
"Yeah," he said, remembering his own turkey-induced naps with fondness.
"Well, we never took Thanksgiving naps in my family," I said sadly.
He stared at me.
"And," I said -- figuring since I had uncorked the bottle of sad memories, I may as well empty it -- "we never grazed on leftovers all day and night."
He looked at me with great sympathy. "Oh, my poor sweetie. I never knew you were so deprived."
"In fact --"
He stopped me. "I think you've relived enough trauma for one day," he said comfortingly.
I had been about to say that I never even got to take leftover turkey sandwiches to school, because by the time Monday rolled around, we -- by which I mean chiefly my father -- had eaten all the turkey. My friends were jealous, because they had to eat turkey sandwiches for a week afterward, and would have happily traded them for salami.
I guess we all suffer in some way or other. But at least they all had each other to commiserate with.
"You know what else?" I said to Joe.
"You don't have to talk about this anymore," he assured me.
"It's okay," I said, looking guilty at my further revelation. "I really don't even like turkey," I whispered. "Neither does my brother."
"Isn't that, like, un-American?" Joe said.
"Well, we eat it," I said defensively. "But we'd really rather have Thanksgiving lasagna."
Joe thought maybe Thanksgiving lasagna would be okay. As long as he could still take a nap afterward.
Note to readers: If you, like me, suffer from the stigma of having family traditions that do not meet the Accepted Standard for Holiday Celebrations set forth by the National Nostalgia Association, I encourage you to talk to a professional. Or Joe. He's much cheaper.
"You know how in most families, everyone takes a nap after Thanksgiving dinner?" I said.
"Yeah," he said, remembering his own turkey-induced naps with fondness.
"Well, we never took Thanksgiving naps in my family," I said sadly.
He stared at me.
"And," I said -- figuring since I had uncorked the bottle of sad memories, I may as well empty it -- "we never grazed on leftovers all day and night."
He looked at me with great sympathy. "Oh, my poor sweetie. I never knew you were so deprived."
"In fact --"
He stopped me. "I think you've relived enough trauma for one day," he said comfortingly.
I had been about to say that I never even got to take leftover turkey sandwiches to school, because by the time Monday rolled around, we -- by which I mean chiefly my father -- had eaten all the turkey. My friends were jealous, because they had to eat turkey sandwiches for a week afterward, and would have happily traded them for salami.
I guess we all suffer in some way or other. But at least they all had each other to commiserate with.
"You know what else?" I said to Joe.
"You don't have to talk about this anymore," he assured me.
"It's okay," I said, looking guilty at my further revelation. "I really don't even like turkey," I whispered. "Neither does my brother."
"Isn't that, like, un-American?" Joe said.
"Well, we eat it," I said defensively. "But we'd really rather have Thanksgiving lasagna."
Joe thought maybe Thanksgiving lasagna would be okay. As long as he could still take a nap afterward.
Note to readers: If you, like me, suffer from the stigma of having family traditions that do not meet the Accepted Standard for Holiday Celebrations set forth by the National Nostalgia Association, I encourage you to talk to a professional. Or Joe. He's much cheaper.
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