swerve across two lanes
SUPER TURKEY
It is a little-known fact: new furniture leaks harmful fumes that make rash decisions seem like fantastic ideas, which is why I will be hosting Thanksgiving for the in-laws (it's “their” holiday) around my new(ish), extendable, dining-room table. Thanksgiving is this week, were you aware? Oh crap. Oh CRAPHONSO, actually. (Can you believe his parents named him Craphonso? Do they call him “Crap” for short?)
I am exaggerating and for once am not as woefully unprepared as usual. A menu has been made, dishes have been delegated, and a couple of grocery-store runs plus a detailed timeline, posted on a whiteboard and followed on pain of death, should do it. I am actually looking forward to hosting, because it involves NOT driving out to Hicksville, as well as getting drunk on something other than Franzia jug wine. Although I have no room to be a snob about others' wine choices, given my affection for the Target-brand cabernet-shiraz wine cube. (It's really not bad! Honest! And there is a fuck of a lot of it, which is an important quality in a wine!)
There are also many comedy advantages to the wine cube. When it starts to run dry, you get the fun of ripping the box open like The Hulk, finding the kitchen scissors, and performing an emergency vacuum-bag-ectomy in order to get the last few drops into your glass. When the Target checkout kid asks if you want the wine cube in a bag, you get to say, “Nah, I'll just drink it in the car” and witness his reaction. Wine cube! Fun!
LT is in charge of purchasing the turkey, because I am deficient in poultry knowledge. We decided on a fresh one since I don't relish the thought of a slowly-thawing dead bird hanging around the kitchen for days. So he makes some calls to see what's the dealio, do you need to make a fresh-turkey reservation or arm-wrestle someone in your weight class to win one or what. And then I get a call at my office from LT, who informs me that he has found some kind of ultra-organic, pedigree-papered, Montessori-educated, cloth-diapered turkey that will cost, all told, about one hundred and twenty dollars. I tell him to make some MORE calls, because while I am no expert on what turkey costs I am an expert on what I want to spend on freaking Thanksgiving, a holiday pretty far down on my ranking of awesome holidays, and one hundred and twenty dollars is not it.
Eventually, a more middle-class (although still organic) turkey was located and we should be picking it up on Wednesday. So that's taken care of. Now I just have to, you know, do everything else.
TWO MORE THINGS AND THEN I HAVE TO GO MAKE A PIE OH MY GOD
1. The Chicago Sun-Times, a very mockable paper indeed, seems to have a new slogan—“Let's Get Into It.” I wait for the bus near a Sun-Times vending box, and every morning now I feel all challenged and testy. You talkin' to me, Sun-Times? You want to get into it? Oh yeah, let's get into it. I have some things to say.
2. One of our aquarium fish has given birth and now there is an itty-bitty orange fish zooming around the tank. I blame myself. I neglected to keep the fish busy with afterschool programs and organized sports. I thought we had plenty of time to have that facts-of-life talk and that they teach that stuff in health class anyway. And now we reap the bitter harvest, my fish are Parents Too Soon. PAPA DON'T PREACH, I'M IN TROUBLE DEEP GLUB GLUB. We are all coping with the situation as best we can—Nora has named the little fish Hubert and is naively excited about the development, LT pours himself an extra bourbon and tries not to let on how disappointed he is, I yell into the tank about GODDAMMIT YOU NEED TO AT LEAST FINISH HIGH SCHOOL. Oh, and I also am sprinkling in some extra food and hoping that the teen mom does not decide to simply solve the problem by eating her baby. So far so good. Go Hubert!
—mimi smartypants cranberried your sauce.