If you’re reading this on Thanksgiving, then it’s likely that you’re ignoring something very important right now (cleaning, cooking, drinking) and because I don’t want to be blamed for your lack of foresight and/or productivity, I strongly urge you to stop reading and go do something else, even if it’s only keeping your elderly relative away from the bowl of still-in-the-shell nuts because that nutcracker, while not very complicated at all, will no doubt slip in their frail hands and bruise them, which is gross because that blood thinner medication they take causes giant purple oil spills all over their papery skin and gives them something to bitch about for the next two goddamn hours.
Or maybe you have nothing to do because you were smart enough to get someone else to everything. You lucky bastard. If this is the case, then I urge you to find a quiet, secret place from which to browse the Internet and hope no one bothers you.
I’m enjoying the last hour of quiet before I have to leave for my dad’s. His girlfriend just broke up with him (again, because she’s a sociopath), and because he hasn’t ever really been alone for any extended length of time in the last 30 years, he’s convinced that the standard heartache of a breakup is clinical depression and anxiety. This is, of course, because he’s convinced that he has depression and anxiety anyway, which I know are not things to scoff at but you have to understand his levels of hypochondria or, if not actual hypochondria, then at least his tendency to be a drama queen. Add this to our family’s established history of alcoholism peppered with insanity, and it’s a super fun way to guarantee that we go to his house for Thanksgiving. While I’m there, I’ll get a break from him calling me several times a day to talk about nothing in particular. I’ve really got to find him a hobby.
I have no idea what my mom is doing for Thanksgiving. The way I see it is that my parents are old enough to organize their own damn holidays, and if one of them wants to host something, then they know how to pick up the phone and notify me. It’s the least they can do after waiting until I grew up to get divorced, thus cheating me out of two Christmases during childhood. At this point, I am more than happy to let one of them tell me where to go and what to bring, because it’s hard enough trying to temper their perception of my loyalties on a regular day.
Today I am bringing the vegetables. The cauliflower is prepped for roasting, the sage brown butter with a dash of pumpkin seed oil is made, the chard is trimmed for braising with the diced onion, minced garlic, chopped bacon, and miso broth. It sounds fancy in type, but it’s actually pretty easy and guarantees that I’ll have a choice beyond green bean casserole (demon dish, looks like barf). And since everything is ready by now, I can sit around on the Internet and eat hummus for awhile. It’s a nice way to relax after last night, which involved Graham’s computer getting that Blaster Worm I had awhile ago, beers, Guns ‘N Hoses, getting stranded downtown because the shuttle driver forgot about us, paying $1 to ride “Molly the Trolley” back to Soulard, some drunk bastard backing into Graham’s car while we watched from the sidewalk, and 1am bacon and eggs while Graham called his insurance company. Then we watched Encino Man.
If there were lessons in this, they would be to install Malware Bytes beforehand, go to more boxing matches because they are fun, take Molly the Trolley as often as possible, and punch a guy in the face when he says “hey, we’re all out having fun” as a way of explaining why he backed into your car even though he has a rear camera.
That was my night. I have a few more moments of quiet before I have to go. And I’m pretty sure you have something better to do.