It's Thanksgiving! I'm up! I do not WISH to be up early on a holiday, and I realize those of you who are grownups have already BEEN up for 109 hours, gutting your turkey or whatever, and believe it or not I have to also too take the innards out my turkey. Can I feed the inside parts to the dogs?
I can Google this, but go ahead and send me hysterical "NO JUNE! YOU WILL POIIIIIISON YOUR DOGS!" comments. I like how dogs can eat strange poop (as opposed to normal poop) and Dortios bags and half-rotten Kongs they find under the shed in the spring but one single grape is gonna murder them dead.
I am going to celebrate this delightful day of giving smallpox to Native Americans with my friend Laurie, who is a faithful reader and also an overachiever. My father was going to come here for Thanksgiving, all the way from Albuquerque just like Bugs Bunny,
(I adore YouTube) (what made Bugs Bunny think that orange thing was a flattering ensemble? Also he has the same coloring as Roger. I never thought about that before. And they have the same-sized feets.)
but wouldn't you know I got a statistics textbook to proofread, and I really super extra cannot turn down the extra money at this juncture, so I was all, "Come for Thanksgiving! Right after dinner I have to completely ignore you!" So we decided he is going to come in the spring when his seasonal allergies should kill him, and we are having Thanksgiving in April.
Anyway, this lead to Laurie and me deciding to have Thanksgiving together, and 18 seconds later she emailed me an entire menu, in Thanksgiving-color font, with a turkey gleefully holding up the headline, as if a turkey would be gleefully having anything to do with a menu wherein he was the main course.
I told Laurie I would make the turkey, which was generous of me, seeing as that leaves her with the other 10 items. Why does anyone like me? But since everyone has such low expectations of me, the paramedics had to be called that I even knew HOW to make a turkey.
"You WILL?" she asked.
Then a few days ago, she emailed me to remind me to get the turkey, and I emailed back, all incredulous. "Of COURSE I'll get the turkey. GOD."
I would have never remembered to get the turkey. I would have gotten there and been all, where's the turkey? Aren't we having turkey? Geez, Laurie. I thought you were an overachiever.
So I go to the store, where as you can imagine no people were milling about looking haggard and miserable, and I get to the turkey section and HOLY CRAP was that overwhelming.
They had fresh turkeys that yelled at you and pinched your hind parts, frozen turkeys that had had botox, Butterball turkeys that ate a lot of In-and-Out Burger, store-brand turkeys that were probably cheap for the bargain shopper but that is not me and see above re statistics book and now you know everything that is wrong with me, and Martha Stewart turkeys for $40.
And listen here, Martha damn Stewart. I don't know what kind of entitled rich lady world you live in, but here on planet AMERICA we do not have any FORTY DOLLARS to spend on your stupid turkey–who lived unmoving in a cage somewhere like all the other turkeys–just because you've wrapped it in pretty blue-and-white plastic. You snooty WASP.
So I was overwhelmed. And yelling at Martha Stewart in my mind. When this nice lesbian women came up. And I know it is not nice to stereotype, but, folks, girlfriend was a lesbian. And if she wasn't, she needs to have a good talk with herself about why she prefers a buzz cut and walks like John Wayne.
She stands over next to me, looking at Martha damn Stewart's pretentious turkeys, and I'd like to state for the record SHE DID NOT GET ONE, EITHER, MARTHA, so if you were trying for the gay demographic, good luck, there.
"Do you find this overwhelming?" I asked Buzz LikeGirls.
"I find it expensive," she said. "Normally this breast (stop with the obvious joke, you guys. Geez.) is bloop de bloo dollars, and just because it's Thanksgiving they want bleee dee dee blee."
I was totally bored by the how-much-groceries-cost talk, and also amazed that people make turkeys when it isn't Thanksgiving.
"So, if you make turkey when it isn't Thanksgiving, you can probably tell me. Can I buy a fresh turkey today and it'll be okay on Thursday?"
Christopher Walken-Like-John-Wayne paused, like that was the weirdest question she had ever heard, and I love to read what she is saying about me in her blog. "Well, yes, ma'am. ('Ma'am.' We were the same age if we were a day.) See, here? 'Best by 11/27.' You're fine to eat this on Thanksgiving."
"Well, that's what I thought, but I didn't get why, if you could buy fresh, you'd buy frozen."
I still don't get that. Groceries. They confuse me.
Anyway, I thanked that woman for her help and as I was leaving said, "If I die from eating this turkey, Ima come back and haunt you."
And with total seriousness, she said, "Oh, please don't do that. I have so many people who're already haunting me."
Who wanted to throw her fresh Butterball on the floor and sit right in the refrigerated aisle and hear all about THAT? WHOOOO is haunting this poor woman? Why do people have to say interesting things right when you're leaving?
So, anyway. That was my turkey debacle. And now he is sitting in there waiting for me to reach inside and yank his guts out.
Don't forget to take a photo today and send it to me for my photo project. You have till Sunday to get it to me, and I did that because if you are at your mom's house, she may have no way to email a photo. I mean, that may or may not be the case at my own mother's house, and I was picturing the part where you all go around the table and say what you are thankful for, and you are bursting into tears because you couldn't participate in June's photo project and therefore are thankful for nothing.
At any rate, my email address is on–I think–the right side of this blog. And if it's not it's on the left side, genius. Be sure to tell me what time of day it was for you and where in the world geographically you are.
I am thankful for all of you, my little blog family. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Or Thursday. You international readers are so cranky.