It Is Later Than You Think

I had big fantasies about spending the Thanksgiving weekend writing blog posts galore.  In fact, in my planner I wrote, "Blog Posts Galore!"  It didn't happen.  I got too depressed.

My dinner was a fabulous success, at least in my opinion.  The turkey was moist and golden brown.  The gravy was rich and delicious.  The stuffing was flavorful and moist.  The potatoes were moist.  All right, I know, I'm using the word moist too much, but it is an adjective I haven't been able to use to describe a Thanksgiving meal in many years.  Grandma's buns turned out well, as did Other Grandma's pumpkin pie.  And the lemon tart was to die for. 

But I don't want to talk about dying, because poor Faux Ma is doing just that.  Not to make light of the situation, I'm just trying to make sense of my feelings about it all.  You know the saying, If you can't be a good example, be a horrible warning?  Faux Ma is turning out to be the latter for me.  I have compassion for her and all, but really, is being terminal any reason to ruin a perfectly good holiday?

The entire day, all three hours of it, was centered around watching Faux Ma writhe in pain.  A shoulder/neck pain.  Bursitis, I think, nothing related to her cancer.  Anyway, she brought along her heating pad for comfort, but it obviously gave her none.  Boyfriend and Faux Pa would just watch her moan, sigh, and shift positions.  No one spoke.  I grew so terribly uncomfortable with the situation I asked her if she'd like to take one of my Vicodin, it would work a miracle.  She said she had already taken one.  Then I said, well then, maybe you'd like a glass of wine with that.  The humor was not appreciated. 

Faux Ma has an expiration date now.  I'm sure that circumstance is a difficult one to deal with.  The trouble I'm having relates to figuring out where I fit in.  On one hand I want to do everything I can to help make this stage of her life comfortable.  On the other hand I want her to quit her whining and resistance.  I want her to be gracious.  I want her to see the fucking light already.  Not that one people see when they're stepping over to the other side, but, you know, "the light."  I want to just tell her get a clue, tick-tock, your life is nearly over and you're still choosing to be the bitter passive-aggressive you've always been?  Doesn't really matter either way as this is a private family matter and I'm basically shut out. 

I guess being on the brink of death doesn't have the same effect on Faux Ma as it had on Scrooge.  Maybe Faux Ma doesn't care that she has indeed become a burden to deal with rather than a dying parent to nurture and soothe. 

Boyfriend has similar feelings to mine, although his feelings don't freak him out as much as mine freak me out.  I'm not used to this sort of thing.  I've seen people close to me die with dignity and grace.  I've seen people with terminal illnesses live their lives with vigor and determination and hope until the very end.  To watch this woman resist help yet complain about not being able to do the things she normally does is annoying to me.  To see she still holds grudges against other family members is perplexing to me.  To know the little voice inside her head is just begging people to pamper her and fall all over her in their grief over her imminent demise pisses me off because the voice I hear coming from her mouth tells me not to bother.

I want to do something even though I'm not truly welcome to.  I want to stay away because, well, frankly being around her is just a downer.  She's that terrible warning, an example of what I don't want to be when I'm dying.  I guess, even in her pitiful physical state and twisted emotional state, Faux Ma is an inspiration to me.  A reminder that just because I'm dying doesn't guarantee love and affection.  A sign that truly as we sow, so shall we reap.

Boyfriend took his parents home after our delicious meal.  When he came back he found me in my comfy chair with a glass of wine beside me as I watched The Brady Bunch reruns on TV.  I spent a good part of the weekend in a state of shock and awe over what happened this Thanksgiving.  I realize I'm thankful for the good people in my life, the ones who support me and love me no matter how big an asshat I can be.  I'm also thankful for those who don't love me so much, for they are the ones who inspire me to be a better person to myself and all those who matter to me.

Gobble Gobble

Do you like Thanksgiving?

For a long time I did, then for a long time I didn't. The concept of a holiday centered around nothing but huge quantities of food appeals to me. Growing up Thanksgiving was indeed a feast put on by my grandma. When the Thanksgiving torch was passed to her daughters, my mother and Her Sister, things didn’t seem as grandiose. To spare you the details of how things went horribly wrong, let me just say Thanksgiving went from a well-orchestrated and perfectly executed meal put on by my grandmother to a disjointed pot-luck attempt at a feast between four cooks. The food was plentiful, but it just didn’t seem right coming from so many different cooks. Some may think a variety of cooks would make for a diverse and delicious meal. I thought it was a mishmash of culinary styles that led to a relatively unremarkable, albeit large meal.

As disenchanted as I was over the fact that my grandma had to die and end all of that Thanksgiving wonderfulness, I have to say the pot-luck thing we had going was much better than what I was in for when I began having Thanksgiving dinner with Boyfriend’s parents, Faux Ma and Faux Pa.

Faux Ma always pleased the men in her life with her cooking. As an outsider I didn’t know stuffing was supposed to be so dry it crumbled off the table spoon from which it was served. I didn’t know green beans were to be served with relish tongs. I didn’t know there was such a thing as tomato jello, otherwise known as aspic. Ass pick. Opaque red jello-like salad containing brown flecks of something served on a bed of lettuce, which also had to be eaten up because one must not waste food even though it’s really meant to be a garnish. I didn’t know mashed potatoes were supposed to crack when you put your fork into them. I didn’t know a Thanksgiving meal could be served without pumpkin pie with pumpkin fluff as a substitute - a pumpkin-flavored Cool Whip dessert so vile it made the dusty turkey seem delicious. I didn’t know the saving grace to Thanksgiving dinner was gravy, the only form of moisture in the entire meal.

Suffice it to say I grew to miss the pot-luck meal my family made tradition.

It’s easy to criticize another’s attempt to put on a holiday meal, even though I don’t exaggerate in the least in my description of Faux Ma’s meal. Now I must put my money where my mouth is. This year Faux Ma is too sick and feeble to put on the meal, so the burden of delectable lies with me. Of course I’m nervous. It’s not that I feel pressure to please my guests because obviously they’re perfectly happy with ass pick and pumpkin fluff. What makes me nervous is measuring up to my own expectations.

So I’ve decided to channel my dead grandma. Thursday morning I’ll meditate and concentrate and do all those other things people do to channel the dead. She’ll inhabit my body and guide me to cooking the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve had in years. There will be real pumpkin pie and no fleck-laden gelatined tomato soup. The potatoes, stuffing, and turkey will be moist and delicious. For a good measure I’ll channel my other dead grandma and make her sweet, buttery dinner rolls. Being so possessed by these grandmothers I’ll dance around the kitchen singing Everything Is Beautiful and end every sentence with the question “and-so?” I can’t go wrong with my two grandmas in the kitchen with me, inhabiting my very essence.

Wish me luck. With my channeling skills I’ll probably come up with Colonel Sanders and Orville Redenbacher and serve nothing but extra crispy popcorn.

Oh well, better than ass pick.

Eat Me

With Halloween coming up there are so many new parents out there just itching to get their cute little babies out there for Tricks or Treats.  Our friend, Martha Stewart, is always coming up with creative ideas and this Halloween is no exception.

I present to you, the Roast Turkey costume:

I'm totally not lying.  If you're sick enough you can find the details here.  The costume pattern includes all the roasted vegetables and platter.  Your little darling will be so cute you'll want to eat her up!  And it's a twofer.  Lay little customed Tiffany on the Thanksgiving table and watch Aunt Edna stroke right out.  It's all around holiday fun!

Addendum: Taking a small infant out Trick-or-Treating is not cool as we all know you're hogging the candy for yourself.  Babies can't eat a Snickers Bar and you know it.  Note to self: stock up on Melba Toast hand-outs for lame infant-wielding Trick-or-Treaters.