Crisis Averted. Almost.

I am happy to report that the holidays have come and gone with no charitable catastrophes. All gifts were appropriately wrapped and strictly materialistic. What a relief!

However, another catastrophe was in the making. Normally every Christmas involves the opening of some gift with malevolent intentions. These gifts are always more of an elbow jab than a hug. There have been electronic fart machines, dishes glued together, a full-sized chicken tree ornament, complete with a name ("Holy Henny") and an egg underneath the tail feather that, when pressed, played carols.

However, by Christmas Day, gift exchanges with coworkers, friends, and my immediate family had already come and gone without any pointing-and-laughing. With just Christmas Day lunch at my grandmother's home left, I was starting to lose hope. Luckily my grandmother, ever the clutch player, came out swinging. She had barely put on her wig before she was thrusting a wrapped box in my hand and shoving me into a robotic recliner. From the glint in her eye, I knew it was going to be expectedly not good.

Drum roll please...

Yes. That is a gold-and-ivory serving platter, completed with a cardinal nestled amidst pine needles and the charming phrase: "Bless This Home ... The Suzanne."

After I opened it, my grandmother laughed with glee and hovered, waiting for my reaction. As you can tell from my expression in the picture below, I wasn't quite sure what she was after. So I went with a mix of amusement, confusion, and just a hint of dread.

I was told later that, apparently, there had been a mix-up at the Cardinal Plate Factory. Normally these plates feature the name of the family. For example, "Bless This Home ... The Schadenfreudes." Since I'm single, my grandmother decided to adjust the normal template to just feature my first name. One thing leads to another, a detail in quality control is overlooked, and you wind up with a plate that looks like a huge, egomaniacal expression one can eat cheese and crackers off of. Which, of course, my grandmother found hilarious.

What I found hilarious: after opening the "The Suzanne" dish, I spent five minutes outwardly cooing over the beauty and inwardly plotting where I could stash it in my house, never to see the light of day again. Thinking I had successfully dodged a bullet, my grandmother brought out a second plate. Same cardinal, same flecked gold border, only with the corrected "Bless This Home ... Suzanne" sentiment. So now I have two plates.

My new 2012 mission: befriend another Suzanne (or The Suzanne) before next December. Spread the word. And let the regifting commence.

GIFT THIS

The other day I heard a report on the radio that, during this holiday season, people were doing something so incredibly disturbing that I started to doubt the whole meaning of Christmas. I mean, I've heard the phrase "War on Christmas" before. I've always it was pretty much banal conjecture. But I never thought things would sink this low. So I'd like to take this opportunity to publicly declare my position:

I am firmly ANTI - Someone - Making -A - Donation - To - A - Charity - In - My - Name - As - Their - Christmas - Gift - To- Me.

Seriously. Christmas charitable gift giving is all the rage right now, apparently. And it is an affront. An affront, I say! I don't need that deviant socially responsible behavior corrupting what everyone knows puts the "wonder" in the most wonderful time of the year: getting gifts.

For me, a big part of a Christmas gift is the fact that someone braved treacherous parking lots, angry masses, and possible Internet credit fraud to find something they thought I would like. It doesn't even really matter if I like it or not. It's the fact that someone took the time to think about me and what I would enjoy. And what is something that anyone who knows me would know I wouldn't enjoy? A big show of how they are a better, more magnanimous, less shallow person than I am. Translation - I don't want to receive the gift of knowing that you donated money last week while I was busy spending hours drawing stick figure caricatures of myself.

And I'm talking about real gifts. Ribbon-tied, shiny-paper-wrapped, here's-a-gift-receipt-in-case-it's-the-wrong-size gifts. Know what you can't return back to the store for credit? Charitable donations.

Let me be clear: I have no issue with people giving to charities. I think that's a wonderful thing. I even partake in it myself on occasion. (An open bottle of wine and a 1-800 number are usually involved.) But to use that beautiful act of humanity and contort it into some way of getting out of buying me a gift?

No.

No ... no ... no.

Give away if you feel so moved. I applaud that. But don't think you can use that to weasel your way out of buying me a set of teacups I'll never use or knitting me a scarf I'll never wear. If you plan on giving me the gift of YOU Donating To A Charity ... well ... you might as well give me the gift of YOU Eating A Bunch Of Fiber. Both make YOU feel good inside, but what am I really getting out of it? Nothing. And I don't want to see a receipt. For either option.

Need more proof? Take a gander at the scenario below:

Think he's getting any anytime soon?



Plus, I am one of those old souls -- okay, old farts -- that still writes thank you notes. I always like to personalize them by explaining how I will be using the gift the person generously gave me. I think it adds a touch of sincere appreciation. For example:



Dear Co-Worker,

Thank you so much for the Harry Potter bookmark! As a lover of that classic English tome, I'm so excited to wedge Mr. Potter into other literary endeavors. That way, when I'm tired of reading about psychosocial development theories or refrigerator repair manuals, I can have dear Harry hold my place until I return. Accio the last page I read!

Cheers!

Suano




Now, what kind of sincere thank you letter can I write for a charitable donation? Something like this...




Dear Co-Worker,

Thank you so much for the birthday gift of donating to the ASPCA instead of giving me a real gift! I'm sure those homeless puppies truly appreciate the extra paper towels your money purchased as they felt those towels wipe away the despair seeping out of their bloodshot eyes. I'm so happy that I wound up having a birthday  so they could reap the benefits of me avoiding death for another year. Fingers crossed they do the same!

Every time I see those heart wrenching ASPCA commercials, I can't help but think of how gracious you were, giving away my present to them. In my honor, of course. And hey! If I ever randomly bump into crooner/animal rights cuddler Sarah Mclachlan, I have a perfect opening line about how I was connected to a donation made to the ASPCA! Of course, I'll have to explain that I didn't actually make the donation. You did that. But you did it as a gift to me, so it only makes sense that I get the social credit. I mean, you already got the tax credit. Plus the added bonus of everyone cooing over your magnanimity at my birthday happy hour last night. I think a couple people even bought you drinks. Didn't they? I'm pretty sure that's what I overheard while I was paying my own tab.

Anyway, thank you again for the thoughtful gift of charity on my birthday. And don't worry. I haven't forgotten about your own upcoming birthday. In fact, I've already enclosed your gift so you can enjoy it early. That's right: a seven-day cruise package! I know, I know. It seems like a lot, but nothing is too much for a friend!

And don't you worry your pale little head. The cruise launch location is way down in Florida, and I haven't forgotten about how nervous you get about flying. So, to spare you that trauma, I took it upon myself to carry the burden and go on the cruise for you. BUH BUH BUH, don't you say another word. It was the least I could do. I've enclosed pictures from your entire cruise. You know, so you can enjoy your gift!

And you'll never guess who I ran into. Rider Strong! Remember him? Shawn, the renegade bad boy best friend on the television show Boy Meets World? Of course you do, you loved him. I remember you collecting every single Big Bopper magazine with his picture on it and decoupaging him into all of your prom pictures. I never found him particularly noteworthy at the time, but you know what? You were right. He is absolutely adorable! We met in line for the rock climbing wall. Needless to say, I fell hard! We've spent practically every minute on the cruise together. Dinner, dancing, scuba diving, sunning. He even wrote me a sonnet! Really, it was amazing.  In fact, we're going to get together next week out in L.A. He keeps on saying "I'm the one," blah, blah, blah. I wasn't sure at first. I like to keep my options open. But he's starting to grow on me! And, to think, we never would have met if I hadn't done this for you. I'm so glad that I got this cruise for you. I guess this is what everyone means when they say treat others the way you want to be treated. Dreams really do come true!

Okay, enough of me rambling. I'm sure you want to start looking through the pictures from your cruise. Enjoy! And thanks again!

Love,

Suano (aka The Future Mrs. Rider Strong!)

(Need I say more, mi amor?)

And if that doesn't convince you, I leave you with this:

On that holy night ...  three kings from afar ... weary from a long sojourn across the desert ... kneel down in front of a humble manger ...  slowly bowing their heads ... they reach into their gilded robes, tattered from the stinging sands and relentless winds ...  and present to the small child, the savior of the world, their gifts... three envelopes with receipts from TJ Maxx in which they had rounded up their purchase to the nearest dollar, donating a total of ninety-seven cents to the local YMCA.

Come on. If Oh Holy Night had gone down like that, how royally cheesed would Jesus have been when he he found out? He still would have lost his cool and thrown everyone out of the temple that one time, but it would have been because he saw all of those merchants with awesome Christmas gifts for sale and snapped. Because what did he get, the Reason for the Season, on the very first Christmas ever? A crumpled up receipt and some little snot banging a drum in the background.

So do like the Wise Men did. Dig into that tithing and shell out some gold coins for a little gold, frankincense and myrrh for those you love. And you'll have helped to put a little Christ back in Christmas.

*********************************************************************

P.S.

Just saw this commercial on television. Looks like Santa read this blog post ...

That's right. Run, fat man. Run.

P90Ouch

The New Year is coming up, which means resolution time. I always like to get a jump start on my promises for the new year so I start my resolutions in early December. That way I can figure out the ones I'm going to bail on already and remove them from my resolution list. I mean, come on. A year is a long time. I'm not setting myself up for failure.

A habitual contender is, of course, the "Get In Shape, Grrrrl!" resolution. Some people say they want to get healthier or feel better. I'm not in it for that. I'm in it for the outer beauty. While that probably sounds incredibly vain and shallow, there are two things you should keep in mind:

#1. I AM incredibly vain and shallow.

#2. Due to my employment on a college campus, I'm acutely aware of my rapid approach to what I have named as the "Ma'am-Life Crisis." You know, the time in a woman's life when cashiers and door-to-door Boy Scouts selling chocolate bars greet you, not with the light, flirty "miss" salutation, but instead slam you with "Ma'am." Which, as everyone knows, is Miss's frumpier, dumpier sister. Ma'am is the Jan to Miss's cool Marsha.

I've been Ma'amed no less than six times this year. (The fact that I keep track = further evidence of #1 from before.) SIX. And one of those crimes was committed by a mustached sales-hipster at the Apple Store. AND at the time I was wearing -- nay, rocking -- skinny jeans, boots, statement earrings. (Gentlemen, if you don't know what "statement earrings" are, just watch an episode of Real Housewives of Anywhere. They are those chunky dangle earrings dragging ear lobes past the shoulders ... the overly tanned shoulders ... of that episode's central divorcee.)

What I'm saying is this: I currently have long hair. The ends fall past my shoulders by inches. And I'd like to keep it that way. However, long hair only works in certain contexts. In Ma'am-Life Crisis time, long hair goes from Youthful to Inapproriately Clinging To the Idea of Youth. The only way I can keep this hair is to have the figure that can back it up.

So this is it. Next year I will resolve to get healthy. This year? I resolve to get hoochie. Well, my version of hoochie. (Translation: I want to be able to wear sleeveless tops without strategizing how to position my arms for the most slimming angle, and wear skirts without Spanks.)

In the last year, I've had multiple friends mention that they've suffered through P90X to reach their fitness/appearance goals. I figure I might as well try it. Sure, I've heard it's intense. But I regularly run 5 miles. I eat granola. I own free weights, resistance bands (still in the original packaging) AND a Total Gym. If I can take on a Chuck Norris approved arm routine, I'm sure I can handle a little P90X. My friend Meghan brings over her copy and I wake up bright and early to take on a routine each morning.

******
For those of you familiar with P90X, here are the answers to the two questions I know you're thinking about:

Answer to Question #1: No, I'm not purchasing the chin-up bar accessory. I have no delusions about my upper arm strength. While the gurus on the screen are heaving and huffing over and under the bar, I'm going to do push-ups. Modified, bent-knee girl push-ups.

Answer to Question #2: No, I'm not following the nutrition guide. Again -- and I can't stress this point enough -- this isn't about health.

*******


So far I've only tried three of the DVDs, and here are my results:

Chest and Back Routine Results:

• I can no longer bend my elbow past 45 degrees, which means...
• Before showering, I have to stretch for five minutes so I'm able to actually reach my head and shampoo my hair.
• When my nose itches, I reach for it, immediately pull back and wince from the pain, then have to resort to using a straw as a twelve-inch arm extension to scratch the tip of my nose.
• I can only blog from a reclined position.

Legs and Back Routine Results:

• I can no longer support my own body weight with my legs for more than seven (7) minutes at a time.
• I now take the time to explore the architectural wonder which is the bricked-in stairwell at work, as it now takes me seven (7) minutes to climb a flight of stairs.
• When I walk, my calves feel like they have a pair of gerbils inside them, fighting for calf domination.
• I want to punch every wall I see because of my PTSD over the one-legged wall sits.

Ab Ripper X Routine Results

• I can no longer stand up straight, as my lower abs have decided they want to curl up in the fetal position and never stretch again.
• This P90X instructor, Tony Horton, is starting to look like the lovechild of my college Physics instructor and Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. Is that a sign of dehydration?

I had planned to set up the timer on my camera to capture random pictures from the workout. But, sadly, I couldn't figure out how to make the timer delay longer than five seconds. (New Year's Resolution #2: Become the Master of all Household Technology.) So I had to resort to drawing pictures. Trust me: They. Are. Spot. On.

***P90Ouch***

Hey, Starbucks barista? MA'AM THIS.

.................................................................................................................................

P.S.

Since this blog post title could be construed as as referring to (not the P90X workout regimen but) the P90, a rapid-fire submachine weapon used by Russian Ultranationalists in the video game Call of Duty, I figure it's only fair to add a picture of two weapons of mass destruction:

Check out the magazine size on those ...

Grandma's Balls

One of my grandma's favorite things about the holidays are her balls. Large, bumpy, wrapped in plastic, she brings them to all festive family gatherings, passing them out to kids and grandkids. Only problem is, my grandma's balls? They taste terrible.
My grandma has been making popcorn balls for years. Maybe it's the glaze of childhood memories, but as a kid I remember them tasting amazing. I would sit on a stool in her kitchen, chin barely reaching past the counter, and sneak crunchy and sugary bites as she stacked up a mountain of popcorn goodness. By the end it looked like she had an arsenal of snowballs, ready for a sneak attack.

But some things don't get better with age. No offense to my grandma or anything, but her baller skills are slipping. Before, they were candied clouds of honey. Now, they're Styrofoam, crumbling before you've even taken a bite. Like they've lost the will to hold themselves together. Gone is the delicious carmelization. Probably because the doctor told my grandma to cut back on sugar or something. But why should we have to suffer just because of her cardiac issues? That hardly seems like the Christmas spirit.

So, last week at Thanksgiving my grandma marched in with her requisite arsenal of kernel artillery tucked under her arm in a plastic bag. Ever the gracious hostess, I cooed over the bounty and then immediately placed them on the coffee table for guests to nibble on. By the end of the night, each ball should have been effectively chewed or pawed so much that I could justify throwing them out.

As the festivities were winding down and people were packing up leftovers, I did a quick survey of the living room to see if the popcorn balls were anywhere to be seen. I figured I could pawn them off on my mom. She always seems weirdly protective of not hurting my 86-year-old arthritic grandmother's feelings. Luckily, the bag was nowhere in sight. I helped pack up trunks with casserole dishes, waved goodbye, and exhaled as I shut the door.

Now, a few days later, what do I spy, hidden behind the television stand?

BALL ALERT. DEFCOM 5. THREAT LEVEL RED! RED!

Since the turkey carcass has been festering in my trash can for three days, I am not about to break that seal to throw these away. So I scoop up the sandwich-bagged balls of distaste and head over to my pantry for safe keeping until the next trash day. That's when I spy this, and shriek in horror:

...the balls are coming from inside the house...

Okay, someone snuck these in here while I was distracted by the dessert pies after dinner. I add my discovery to their bland brethren, all the while going through my guest list for the likeliest suspect deserving retribution. Maybe I should pack the suspect's Christmas present with these things. They're basically like packing peanuts anyway.

Hey, that's not a bad idea. I slide the pantry door back open again and eye the PBs (aka popcorn balls). Maybe there is a whole world of use for these things besides, you know, eating them. Lord knows I'm not going to do that.

_________________________________________________________________________

I pull one of the PBs out of the plastic bag. Before I can even start to think of an alternative use, I get bitten. I yelp and drop the PB to the ground, kernel crumbs flying. After a second, I hunch down to get a closer look.

 The damn thing has a snaggletooth.

Apparently when my grandma was working on this particular batch, a random toothpick fell into the batter and passed quality control. Makes me wonder what other bits of garbage I might find in these.

Ergo, PB Use #1: Deadly Weapon.

_________________________________________________________________________

 The world of the PB is a world of juxtaposition. (I only know that word because James Cameron released a behind-the-scenes book about the filming of Titanic and he used that word. All. The. Time. Jimbo's all about the contrast.) One minute it's inflecting pain, the next it's recklessly protecting others, literally throwing itself into harm's sharp way. In my garage there is some wire shelving installed mere inches from the interior door. Both shelves stick out precariously and have sharp metal edges facing the door. What's worse, the shelves are the same color as the walls so they blend in, lying in wait for the next unsuspecting entrant to cut the corner a little too close and bite it.

PB to the rescue!

The balls serve as both a soft, malleable cover and a warning shot. Danger! We're here on these pikes, make sure to stay clear!

PB Use #2: Protective Covering.

_________________________________________________________________________

  

As winter is rolling into Ohio I'm discovering all sorts of nooks and crannies around my new home letting December's chilly breath in. Sadly, my block-the-cold-air felt tube mysteriously disappeared during the move. Maybe these can be a nice replacement.

  

Boom. Deviant air flow blocked. Plus, the PBs are festive decorations! They go great with my reindeer-wearing-winter-gear-doorknob-hanger.

PB Use #3: House Insulation

_________________________________________________________________________

Speaking of festive, I was just trying to find homemade (e.g. cheap/free) ornaments to add to my tree. I snag a few balls, shove a hanging hook behind an extended kernel, and hook it to a branch.

It looks charming! Like something Beth from Little Women would adorn their post-war tree with, while that hoochie sister Amy leers at Laurie, plotting how to steal him away from Jo. (That little hellion so deserved to have her limes taken away at school. Little Man Stealer...) I grab a few more PBs, hook them, and scatter them throughout the tree's piney fingers.

  

...Oh Christmas Tree... Oh Christmas Tree... How Corny Are Your Branches...

 (Please don't let me wake up tomorrow morning with ants crawling all over my tree ... Please don't let me wake up tomorrow morning with ants crawling all over my tree ... Please don't...)

PB Use #4: Substitute Holiday Ornament

_________________________________________________________________________

  

By this point, I'm starting to really reach for ideas. I've run out of ornament hooks, and I have one PB left. I consider putting it in the fireplace and lighting it (Substitute Starter Log) but I don't know if the minimal sugar coating would mean that it would instantaneously combust. Plus, seems like a violent end. I don't want this last ball becoming some sort of martyr symbol, inspiring other bland concoctions to march against me and infiltrate my home. I put it in a large-mouthed vase, going for a Pottery Barn minimalist angle (PB Use: Pretentious Centerpiece --, hey! PB is for Popcorn Ball AND Pottery Barn!) but the scale isn't right. It just looked silly and crude. Like a fish bobbing up and down in a clear glass bowl, no colorful stones or one of those swim-through castles to liven up the scene.

Desperate for a final employment opportunity for the Last of the Popcorn Balls, I realize I only have one choice. I reach into the vase and take PB out. I stare at it for a full minute: the golden honey tones, the sugary scent. I will myself to remember how these balls used to taste, all sweet and salty. I lock that memory into focus, pry off a piece, and start chewing.

Screw it. Still takes like cushion stuffing.

I decide to call it a night, toss the Last of the Popcorn Balls back into solitary confinement in the pantry, and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. After scrubbing away the last popcorn kernel that was spot-welded to my back molar, I spit and set the toothbrush on the counter. As I brush my hair back, I watch the residue from the toothpaste leak out of the brush, leaving blue foam on the counter that I'll have to annoyingly scrub off tomorrow. I've gone to Target three times now with the explicit intent to buy one of those toothbrush caddies, and each attempt has been a failed mission. (Attempt 1 Distraction: half-off boyfriend cardigans, Attempt 2 Distraction: fuzzy moccasin slippers, Attempt 3 Distraction: co-worker discovered in make-up aisle, bob-and-weave my way out of the store empty-handed.) Hey, maybe...

I dash for the pantry, snag the Last of the Popcorn Balls, and rush back to the  bathroom. I take the end of the toothbrush and use it to slowly bore a channel in the top of the ball.

There...

It matches with the bathroom decor AND saves me $4.99!

PB Use #5: Toothbrush Caddy

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Author's Note: Don't think that it hasn't occurred to me that this post may appear whenever some pervert Googles "grandma balls." My core readership is lacking a strong sexual deviant presence anyway.

Hope Floats

There are certain moments when you realize that, as a single, childless adult (aka Noncreator), you will never understand your friends who have given birth to offspring and for some reason decided to keep the kid around the house (Procreator). I recently had my moment:

The other day I met my college roommates, Stephanie and Nicole, for dinner. It's always fun to catch up with each other and swap stories, especially since each of us has taken a very different path in life. Steph teaches high school Spanish and is married with two uh-DOOR-able girls (Elizabeth, 4, and Catherine, 2). Nicole is a free spirit, has lived all over the globe, and is moving down to Austin, Texas to work as a nurse practitioner in a community clinic. Me? I still work at the same University we all attended lo those many years ago. My role is mostly confined to relaying hilarious stories of personal embarrassment. We all have our niche.

Even though we all are pretty content with our lives, there is definitely an occasional twinge of longing for what the others have: family, kids, freedom, spare time, ability to set thermostat at whatever temperature. Then Stephanie illuminated the greener side of her fence with this story:

You know, there are definitely some tough times with having the whole kids-marriage thing. Like, the other day? Elizabeth and Catherine were taking a bath before bedtime.

I step away for ONE minute ...

and the next thing I know Elizabeth shrieks, 'Eww! MOM! Sissy just pooed in the tub!'"

(I'll give that a minute to sink in.)

Stephanie then went on to describe the shocking scene: her two little girls, angelic with wet golden ringlets and baby blues, sitting in a bath of floating poop particles. So now comes a decision no mortal should ever face: do you take the kids out of the tub and clean them off on the bath mat, thus ruining said mat? Or do you save the mat and put them in the shower, thus resulting in additional bleaching and scrubbing responsibilities? Or do you pull the drain plug, leaving them to wait as the water slowly seeps out and the logs are beached on the tub floor? Or do you skim the poop off first, using some type of MacGyvered pool skimmer from a hairbrush and plastic baggie? And which kid do you take out first? Because you know the other one is going to bring it up later in therapy.

I was so horrified by this Sophie's Choice that I started internally debating whether I would go the shower or the skimming route (depends on consistency) and didn't even hear what Stephanie chose. Presumably she did something and her offspring are not still sitting, pruned, in a stew of their own excrement. Then Stephanie said this:

"And you know what was the worst part? I had just cleaned the bathroom."

.....

(That? That right there? That was the moment.)

.....

THAT was the worst part? Given everything you endured in this crime scene, what bugs you the most is the TIMING ? Sure, everything would have been AOK if sweet, sweet Catherine had just waited until the night before Bathtub Scrubbing Day to drop a deuce.

This is the difference between Procreators and Noncreators. Yes, we both agree that poop bobbing around a vessel of cleanliness is disgusting. But Procreators accept their fate. All they ask is that those who dealt it be a bit more courteous with the time frame. Noncreators? Pretty sure that our advice to Stephanie would be to see if she could return those kids because clearly there is a defect. I mean, that type of operating error would definitely be covered by the warranty.

I've performed an unscientific survey of friends and coworkers and all have validated this difference. Noncreators responded with shock and horror, almost throwing up in their mouths. Procreators often responded with disgust as well, but it was a disgust they recognized and were comfortable with. In fact, everytime I get to the poop, a look flashes across the Procreators eyes. I can only assume this means that they are remembering some horror from their parenting past that also dealt with poop and bathtubs. Which they kindly keep to themselves, since us Noncreators don't have the stomach for it. We're too soft.

So, in this time of Christmas, as I stick greeting card after greeting card to my fridge, beaming families donning reindeer antlers, posing in front of twinkling trees, I remind myself of the true freedom of being a Family of One: the only turds I have to clean out of my tub are mine.

And, in tribute to that freedom, tonight I made cinnamon applesauce ornaments and fashioned one as a symbol.

Mmmm... smell that? Smells like freedom. Sweet, sweet, poop-for-one freedom.

Twig and Berries

As is the tradition in my family, the member who just recently moved into a new place is required to host the next family holiday gathering. I actually like the pressure: it's just the motivation I need to actually get pictures hung, walls painted, and baseboards swept. (Really, if the dust wants to settle there, I see no reason to disturb it.) Plus, it's nice to have extended family over. Once a year. (I'm way too lazy for more than an annual event. Cleaning involves way too much cardio.)

Since I moved into Chateau Suano in mid-July, the first holiday to roll around is Thanksgiving. That is perfectly fine with me: fall is my favorite season and Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday. No pressure to come up with Christmas presents for relatives with undecipherable tastes, no church service to wedge in that morning or the night before. Just a good old-fashioned American holiday with distant, glossed-over connections to crimes against an entire race of indigenous people. But, despite those contradictions of ideals, I love Thanksgiving. Well, the cartoon version. I fall for the kitsch of the holiday every year.

Exhibit A:

I make my mom spend two hours Wednesday night cutting out a flock of hand turkeys, decorating each one for a specific family member and nestling something the person was grateful for under its wing. Which leads to a very insightful conversation between us about whether my sister's item of thanks (she's expecting her first kid in spring) should be drawn as an egg (me) or a miniature turkey (mom). My mom wins, despite my multiple attempts to point out that an egg HAS a miniature turkey inside it. I'm still not sure if my mom knows where baby turkeys come from.

Get the flock out of here!

Exhibit B:

Dad, upon returning from a bag-of-ice run: "Hey, I was walking into UDF and I saw a guy in a hat loading-"

Me, completely serious: "A pilgrim hat?! Like with a buckle?"

Dad, staring at me with a mixture of bewilderment and pity: "Um, no. Just a regular baseball hat."


The one downside to Thanksgiving: while other holidays can have a bounty of different food options, Thanksgiving has just one item on the menu: turkey. An entire bird: bones, gizzards and all.

Tom: you can try but you can't hide. We have a date at eight.

We always call ours Tom the Turkey. Since I only recently developed the ability to touch raw chicken without shivering, the prospect of attacking an entire fowl is terrifying. Especially a bird with a name. Adding to the pressure is the fact that I will be hosting a dinner of thirteen, which includes one current and one former lineman. If the bird preparation run afoul  (I'm not above using that joke), I don't think a back-up plan of Skillet Sensations and Pop-Tarts will work. And if you think I'm exaggerating (I'm not above that either), here's photographic evidence of who I'm going to have to feed:

That's not some Peter Jacksonian magic. He literally has to look DOWN to see the top of my fridge.

So, very graciously, my parents volunteer to come down the night before and help me with Operation Feast 2011.

Thanksgiving Day. 0800 hours. It is just Tom versus my mom and me. Tom, defrosted and sitting in the sink, has assumed the position. I have my Turkey socks up and my game face on.



Suited Up. Turkeybowl 2011 has begun.

I have steeled myself to remove the giblets myself. We never use them in the stuffing or gravy anyway. All I have to do is reach in and pull out the bag of innards and immediately throw them into the trash. I even see the corner of the organ sack-o-gold peeking out. I pinch the tiny tab of plastic between my fingers, put the trash can at the ready, and fling poor Tom's guts into the garbage.

Boom! Tom, you just got served! Let's drop this motherfowler into a pan, sling it into the oven, and kick back for the next 2 1/2 to 3 hours.

Little do I know, the giblets are just the start of the crimes against aviary I am about to witness. Seriously, someone should have told me how far we would have to violate this bird. Now I understand why so many mothers spend the holidays crying into their wine glasses.



I'm sure there are other, more culinary ways to describe what we do to Tom, but here's my crude attempt:

• Remove innards.
• Also remove neck, which is conveniently packed inside his body cavity. (I immediately think of how I flip socks together when folding them. I'll never look at laundry day the same way again.)
• Hang him upside-down and rightside-up, making sure the water running through his dead carcass is clear.
• Pluck any last remaining feather quills off of him. (Very poor shaving job, he should invest in one of those Venus Divine razors, they have three blades for a silky smooth finish. Well, should have. Too late now.)
• Castrate him. It might have been something else but, given its location, I can only assume what we are cutting off is at least partially twig-and-berries. I immediately text my cousin, who is also preparing her first full turkey feast. Her response: "No directions say to do that! Why would they leave that part out??"
• Break his shoulders so his wings prop up behind his would-be head. It gives him the appearance of working it for a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit catalog.
• Shove a celery stick up his ass. On second thought, add an onion as well for good measure.
• Rub oil on his chest, which is also disturbingly connected to a bikini photo shoot.

I would have taken a picture, but I figured the images might come back to haunt me if I ever decide to run for political office or Petland sales rep. Although, to be honest, most of the pictures wouldn't be incriminating. They would just show me jumping from foot to foot, hands wringing from the ickiness while my mom patiently works on the bird, all the while smiling in amusement at my lack of kitchen street smarts.

Tom, catching a few rays before his close-up.

The rest of the feast preparation goes off without a hitch. The stuffing bubbles happily in the crock pot. The mashed potatoes fluff up into creamy peaks. Even Tom is ready to go ahead of schedule, so there is plenty of time to cut up the meat. I again opt to act as photographer instead of carver, although I do help to clean some scraps off the bones. I sneak a taste, prying a morsel of meat right off of Tom's sternum. It tastes good. While I'm chewing I think, hmmm. I bet this is what it feels like to be Republican. Like the way sipping Snowville Creamery organic nonhomogenized whole milk makes me feel Democratic. (Equal Time Rule satisfied.)

Geneva Conventions Be Damned

Three hours later, everyone has pigged out on three courses: appetizers, the feast, and dessert. Everyone  has ate, drank, and been sarcastically merry. And, as is our own family tradition, pillows come out, floor areas are claimed, and the siestas begin.

How the mighty have fallen.

 

By seven, leftovers are stowed away, hugs are given, and centerpieces (ironically, vases filled with twigs and berries) are tossed. A quiet sense of peace drifts back into my home. Another day of lovely memories to razz each other about at the next holiday: the chocolate pie none of us could take down, the copious amounts of cheese left over, the barbs exchanged between cousin and uncle. All wonderful things to  remember and bring up later. Come to think of it, there was one thing my mom told me to not forget or I would regret it. Hmm. What was it? Something about the oven? The crockpot?

Wait, what's that smell ... the turkey bones! Put them in the garbage can outside!

And, in one last act of insult, I unceremoniously dump Tom's remains into the trash, wishbone and all. No wish would be worth facing that assault on the senses.

Happy Thanksgiving To All, And To All A Good Night!

Turkey Day 2011

By Their Powers Combined...

In this time of Thanksgiving, it seems like the perfect opportunity to give thanks to an amazing superhero in my life. A superhero that has rescued me in my time of need and transformed me from Scared Home Owner to Empowered Home Dominator: Captain Plan-It.

The Planiteers? My mom and dad.

Sure, they may seem like mere mortals. But ... when their powers combine ...  They! Are! Captain Plan-It! A whirlwind of weekend warrior productivity!

And, as a newbie homeowner, I am in desperate need of a saving grace. I was the dream apartment dweller. I was quiet. I didn't take up extra parking spaces. I left cookies and chilled water out for the maintenance man. But as a homeowner? I'm a disaster. I have no instincts for it. Take mowing the lawn. I must have left my spatial capacities back in my apartment because I wind up mowing parts of the yard twice while leaving little grass mohawks spiking up in my wake. The metallic grinding sound rattling out of the lawn mower? I deduce that the sound means the mower is thirsty for more oil, not gas. (Wrong.)

But my parents? They are seasoned professionals. And together they make an unstoppable team.

Any weekend my mom comes down, I know I'm going to have to either carbo-load or Red Bull to keep up with her. She is a homemaking machine with a solution for any domestic problem. For example: almost any home issue / medical ailment can be cured with either Carmex or a Magic Eraser. Chapped lips? Of course. But did you know that Carmex also cures gummy wall reside and zits? And Magic Erasers can be used both as a cleaner for your shower and a pumice for your feet?

In one 36-hour marathon session, we accomplished the following:

• bedroom painted (2 coats)
• groceries stocked
• front window sheers made
• blinds installed
• lawn mowed
• hedges whacked
• German chocolate torte cake baked
• floors swept and mopped
• six paintings hung
• mass attended
• 8 hours slept

That list would have taken a month to do in Suano Time.

My dad wields his powers in the workshop. He makes amazing furniture. Seriously. All of those childhood yawns and tantrums I used to throw in the concrete aisles of Furrows and Ace Hardware? Totally take them back. All of those road trips from the lumber store, desperately clinging to a trio of two-by-fours in the backseat of the Firebird, the boards stretching precariously out the opened trunk? Totally worth it.

My dad has literally furnished half of my new home. And the pieces are stunning! We're not talking Target-DIY-furniture-kits from the Ye Ol' Dad Workshop here. Believe me, I have some of my attempts at Some  Assembly Requireds  sprinkled throughout the house. They creak threateningly each time I walk by, daring me to rest even a coaster on their tops.

Not the ones built Dad Tough. They are solid, sturdy, and beautifully crafted. Certainly better than those macaroni-noodled Christmas ornaments I made for him in kindergarten.

Here are just a few of his pieces of handiwork...

Bookcase Masterpiece

Spice Cabinet and Granite Table

(you know, because he just had a slab laying around the house)

Bulletin Board and Writing Desk

Cabinet

As you can see, my parents are supernatural. They are clearly the Planiteers, while I am -- at best -- Suchi, that annoying side chimp sitting on their shoulder and chirping side comments while they take on the real home remedy enemies. Without them, I would be sitting in my new home. On the floor, boxes everywhere. Picking nits off myself and crying into an haggard carpet. They've helped me make my house into a home, right in time for Thanksgiving. And that is definitely worth giving thanks for.

So thank you, Mom and Dad, for being the superhero to my sidekick monkey!

Pil-Low and Behold

Since I can't sleep, I have decided to do something productive and provide the public with the valuable information of the 14 pillow combinations I have tested. For optimal sinus drainage, I recommend #11. For Eustachian tube support, #12 or #13 works best. Also keep in mind that results may be influenced by other external factors, such as thread count, moon phase, and the amount of recording space currently available on your DVR.

#1: The Continental

#2: The Lounger



#3: The Old Zinn's Wagon Shed

#4: The Half-In-Half

#5: The Catapult

#6: The Double Down

#7: The Cinnabon

#8: The Tree Mill Log Roll

#9: That's So Raven!

#10: The Inverse

#11: The Downhill Skier

#12: A La Derecha

#1: The Spork

#13: The Ostrich

#14: The Pierre

(This is used only when you have given up on the idea of ever winning the pillow war.

All restless nights lead to The Pierre.)