I cannot believe that a week has passed since Thanksgiving. Part of this feeling is due to the fact that I am currently over scheduled in a really obscene kind of way. The other part is that I’ve not had much of a chance to recover from BB’s visit due to the fact that I have had lengthy phone conversations with her each of the last seven days. I usually do a really good job of limiting our conversation frequency, but due to the hellish combination of BB’s approaching Christmas Eve visit and some extended family drama there has been no escape.
Don’t ask.
Okay, you asked.
I have cousin with a penile staff infection that has produced gangrene. No, I’m serious. Could I make this shit up? No, I don’t know how you get that. I have some ideas, but I don’t really know.
Anyway.
I had planned to write a finely crafted and hysterical article about how my Thanksgiving dinner in no way resembled the little Norman Rockwell fantasy that exists in my head. Unfortunately, in order for me to write funny stories about my very unfunny experiences I need a certain amount of separation from the event. Perspective, if you will, to make the subject matter funny and not just a stark raving lunatic rant.
I’m not really there yet.
So please, forgive me if this article comes off sounding bitter, harsh, or just downright unthankful.
Here are the highlights (lowlights) of last Thursday.
I don’t cook much. I’m capable enough and have been known to cook a really fabulous meal about which people rave. However, that all came to a screeching halt when my daughter was born. Once I added child number two to the mix, something had to go and I preferred to let cooking go rather than my charming disposition.
I have found that cooking is like a lot of things—you don’t really forget how to do it, but you tend to forget some of the subtleties that make the difference between cooking for your mom being tolerable or looking like something out of Christmas Vacation.
