Another entry in the blog no one reads.
The day started out like any other Thanksgiving Day. At six a.m. I got a text that my former mother-in-law died the night before. My being informed that early meant the family was falling apart. Daughters distraught and a 19 hour drive or a long plane flight would ensue.
For me, it was a case of when one must travel 100 miles to be with now- family. Dogs needed exercise then kennel. This is done with a special key word to confinement. The handing out of a cheese offering will always be accepted prior to confinement. These monkey dogs are trained to do one thing, get in their kennel. Oftentimes they are induced to outside toilet habits but truly, getting in their kennel is their one trick.
Dogs confined, we loaded the car with our belongings and our Thanksgiving offerings. Sweet potato casserole pie and Tar Heel pie along with whipped cream. The sweet potatoes were sublime. Light and airy with a crunchy pecan/butter/brown sugar topping. The Tar Heel pie was — well, a tar heel pie and there’s none better. Semi-sweet chocolate melted with sugar and butter added to pecans all baked together into what is basically death by chocolate — a giant chocolate bar with pecans in a pie shell. If you’ve never had a piece of this pie, you don’t know pie.
The two-hour drive, done in haste but without breaking the speed of sound or any laws, was enjoyable. My companion, a 12 year old boy with an iPhone, served as the disc jockey and we listened to everything from Led Zeppelin to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra with a little Eminem mixed in. Arriving ahead of the noon eating time schedule, we felt quite proud of ourselves as we entered the asylum.
Noon turned into a joke time. One was even funnier. Then it turned to four o’clock followed by the true time we sat down to eat — 7 p.m. There were supposed to be six of us, but one family member had a gout emergency and went to the ED and missed dinner, taking his son with him. So we were reduced to four.
This sounds so sane. The only hiccup being the time frame but it was anything but. What occurred in between noon and seven belongs in a reality tv show with me standing in the middle going “what the fuck” just happened here.
The best news of the day? I managed to get away with only a really crappy painting. Usually I am given furniture, paintings, sheets/blankets/curtains, custom-made drapes, jewelry — all under the guise of “give it to >> and she can sell it online and if not, give that shit to the Goodwill.” I am the family’s Goodwill disposal unit and I’m so over it. I don’t want to sell your used items. I may need money but trust me, that is not a good way to make it.
Fortunately for the local Goodwill, a junior size bed, two oriental end tables and various art works of dubious distinction will be proffered soon. Oh, I forgot the broken lamps.
After the gout attack, a friend OD’d and died, making J’s thanksgiving a complete fucked up day. My day was fine, I got my husband back and enjoyed time spent with the most amazing 12 year old in the world.
thanks for not reading.
see you in the funny papers
When I remember childhood thanksgivings, they pale in comparison. We played touch football, took walks, ate turkey, laughed a LOT at everyone and everything and the feeling of love was in the air. Even toward family members who my father referred to as “he may be a son of a bitch, but by god, he’s our son of a bitch” — the love blossomed and grew.
No one had gout and no one OD’d or even got drunk in my past.