Thanksgiving is upon us and I have premature Scrooge syndrome. I blame my co-worker. The one who enthusiastically exclaimed she couldn’t WAIT for Thanksgiving. So EXCITED to host her “orphan” dinner with friends and travelers and random stragglers who have nowhere to go. Her eyes actually twinkled. I could almost see her exquisite menu scroll lightly in their shine.
“And you… what are you doing?” Shrug. “Going to my mom’s…it’ll be nice….” Sigh.
I am thankful for my family, my pets, the roof over my head, the rain on the roof…
I am not jaded by my memories of Thanksgivings past. They were fine. Typical. Most annual turkeys have been served in the childhood home. Aunts, uncles, cousins, cousin’s kids and canine cram into the small Midwest farmhouse festively infested with country crafts. The men watch the game, the women watch the kids, the kids brave the steep stairs that climb up to the toys. Every year, the turkey goes in at the butt crack of dawn, and every year, Mom wonders why it’s done so early? And why Aunt Sharon isn’t here yet? Well, we say under our breath, lips pursed, we’ll just have to eat without her. Aunt Sharon manages to arrive before carving time. Sing Johnny Appleseed, dig in, make dump salad jokes. Remember when Brent broke the bench but saved the dump salad? God, I’m so uncomfortably full, who wants pie? “Ugh”, my mom exhales at the end of the day, “this is probably the last year I’m going to have it here.”
I am thankful for my health and Wisconsin micro-brewed beer. I am thankful for Stephen Colbert.
My “orphan” Thanksgivings began in ’91 in Seville, Spain. We gathered at Alex’s house in Nervion. A mezcla of locals and expats, lisping on about pavo and what- is-the-Spanish-word-for-stuffing? A pasty white New Englander named Jeffrey who, if you closed your eyes, had the uncanny voice of a Southern black man, exclaimed “that is some hot mutha’ f*ckin’ ajo in those tomatoes! JO-der! ” Years later I found myself in San Diego fussing over 25 lbs. of rapidly desiccating poultry. My friend Shiri “helped”, by nervously putting every cooking utensil I used into the dishwasher the second I set it down. Dinner started with a civilized toast, and ended with “There Once was a Man from Nantucket…” in a raucous chorus of 25 voices, one for every pound of that dry-ass bird.
I am thankful for indoor plumbing, organic carrots, fine-tipped Sharpies, and gay men.
Orphan memories of dancing wildly after dinner, bellies full of great food, heads full of fine red wine. Of playing hopscotch on an outdoor patio in 70 degree weather. Of scintilating conversation. Of singing “Piano Man” at the top of our lungs. Of potluck dinners with gourmet cooks, vegetarian dishes, dishes to pass, joints to pass.
But I would call home every year. I could hear Uncle Gary in the background, telling it like it is, and Uncle Tony telling him why not. I felt that lonely, empty ache in my gut. I wish I were there. My intuitive mom would reassure me, ”It’s hectic and loud…this is probably the last year I’ll have it here.”
I’d venture home on rare occasion, “Yes, I’m still single….no, I’m not seeing a woman, even if cousin Sara thinks you’d all be ‘fine’ with that…” I head back, next year an Albuquerque turkey topped with green chile stew.
I am thankful my husband came home alive from Iraq. I am grateful my son’s tic calmed down this week.
Seven years back in the motherland and my voice in the Thanksgiving plans is but a hoarse whisper. I recall those orphan days with an ache. I wish I were there. My brother and sister got off scott free this year, I am the sole representative. Do it for me, she says, this is probably the last year I’m going to have it here. I add green beans to my grocery list. Bacon. Defrost roasted peppers. I dust off the slow cooker, Mom’s oven is too small for multiple casserole dishes.
I hear the catch of excitement in my son’s breath as I tuck him in and remind him to pack tomorrow for grandma’s house. I can feel his smile penetrate the dark. I can almost see the reflection of dump salad shining in his eyes.
I am thankful for my mom. I am thankful for my mom. I am thankful for my mom.
I am thankful for Johnny Appleseed, and the dry turkey and the nervous chaos and the where’s-Aunt-Sharon. I am thankful that my son has a tradition. I am thankful for that warm, roasted smell of my childhood home on Thanksgiving Day.
I am grateful that even a Scrooge will always be welcome.
In regards to the turmoil you have created for Michael Phelps, I would like to state for the record that I find you to be a complete and total dick. No matter what anyone thinks about Phelps’ actions, they have to scrutinize yours. Not exactly the choices I would want my son to make should he find himself in that situation. Boneheads don’t make good role models.
If the illegalities of the situation gravely concerned you, you would have immediately sent that photo to the police from your cell with a text reading, “420 in progress” and directions to the party. If you were offended for religious, moral, or health reasons, you probably would have left the room and included him in your prayers. Not wreak total havoc on his life. Nor were you the dashing photojournalist secretly filming on drug use among Olympic athletes. Or working on that High Times piece dispeling the myth that all weed smokers are confused and unproductive people.
No, you were the douchebag who came to the decision that instead of being the cool, laid-back frat guy who got to chill out with his new buddy Phelps, you were gonna opt for The Total Asshole Move.
WHY? Were you just struck with the desire to inflict a large amount of damage in several key areas of another young man’s life? Do you secretly hate Michael Phelps? Just HAD to bring him down? Do you think swimming is an absolute outrage? Was he hogging all the chicks? Or were you in awe and needed proof for your friends, but a mischievious paparazzi elf stole the photo?
Didn’t anyone at ANY point tell you, “Aw, come on man, don’t be lame.”?
Now it seems obvious to me that we should respect your family and not dissect YOUR life. It appears that did not cross your mind when you marched your little treasure to the press.
Think now. Are there any pictures of you NEXT to the bong? Or vomiting during Rush Week? Or in some vulnerable position where you thought you could let your guard down? Let’s publish THOSE in the local newspaper, the sorority newsletter, plaster posters on kiosks all over town and drop fliers off at all the business specializing in YOUR field where you intend to search for jobs after graduation. Send it to your parents. Your grandma. Your coach.
Didn’t you, at any point, play that little game we call Put Yourself In Their Shoes? I play that game with my 5 yr. old. It helps him learn a little thing we call empathy.
I can only rest assured knowing you will now live with the title of The Guy-Who-Took-The-Phelps-Bong-Picture for the rest of your life. Good luck with that. And I would hope that anyone who criticizes Phelps would also recognize the detriment your kind has on our society.
Because whether we are pro-this or anti-that, most of us don’t take too kindly to opportunistic jerkoffs who profit from exposing others.
My sister-in-law sent me this yesterday and it moved me to tears. In a good way.
http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/ap080722.html
Now get out there and dance.
It’s been at least eight years since I had a Big Plan for New Year’s Eve. Since the birth of my Duck Feathers, New Year’s Eve has found me getting him tucked in and settling in with family. Surrounded by large batches of Barb’s caramel corn, we play games until midnight, make some noise and head to bed. I plant a kiss on my sleeping husband, who is often struck by 9:30 with a sudden bout of narcolepsy after two beers and a half-pound of cheese and crackers. This has been quite satisfactory for me. I have a funny family, and a few years have found us on midnight sled runs behind my brother’s house, running our speeding death traps into pine trees and ripping our pants. Good times, good times.
But after discovering that Cake would be playing the Riverside in Milwaukee on New Years Eve, we went for the Big Plan this year.
I love Cake. In my opinion, they are one of few refreshingly original bands left in this land. (Keep in mind, I don’t get out much.) Their style and lyrics are quirky and intelligent, perhaps near-genius. I predicted that their live show would be intense. They would blow my mind. And as someone who gets completely consumed by well-performed live music, I expected Cake would have me spinning in dance that would push my newly diagnosed benign vestibular vertigo beyond its limits.
I’ve been to plenty of shows in plenty of venues, and know the formula to live shows. You know it. You start big, get the crowd going, throw in some new material, add some down time with something slow, then build up to the finale with audience participation, a throbbing crescendo and the whole place explodes. You leave the stage as the crowd freaks out, and come back for an encore before they calm down. A couple more crowd-pleasers, and everyone leaves buying $35 T-shirts on the way out of the perspiration-steamed doors.
Apparently lead singer John McCrea doesn’t “do” formula. I knew my expectations were in trouble when the lapse of time between announcing the band to a pumped-up audience and the actual start of the first song was long enough for me to take another pee break.
The whole show seemed to be his personal social experiment in the anticipatory behaviors of large, drunk crowds and pushing their limits in patience. I couldn’t help but feel he thought of us as sheep, and we were disappointing him.
The music in itself was fun. They played lots of favorites. But just when a song would grab its hold on me, it ended. We waited, and waited, and waited for the next to begin. Talk about prolonging the magic. The pauses between every song while McCrea tuned his guitar with his back to the audience prevented us from ever gaining momentum. There were good moments, but no intense, mind-blowers. Just when the band started getting tight, McCrea created awkwardness.
A purist might argue that this intentional pull away from the formula is quintessential Cake. There were probably diehard fans nodding knowingly with smirks on their faces when McCrea preached about sacrifice (“Do you know anyone who was injured?”) and the privilege of running water rather than belting out “I Will Survive” (which they never did, dammit). I’m sure there were a few smug, internal cheers among the black-rimmed- square-glasses-wearing crowd when, at one minute ‘til midnight, McCrea began to discuss marking the “arbitrary difference between now and then” and rambled something about “killing your family while you watch” rather than count backwards from ten, which the audience finally took it upon themselves to do.
Observing McCrea’s discontentment in our buffooness was reminiscent of that apologetic feeling you get browsing at an independently-owned record store where the pretentious and knowledgeable staff exchange heated debates about the most obscure underground bands. You SO want to buy something completely unknown and edgy just to show them you are cool, but end up hanging your head low, feeling the unspoken scoff when they ring up your David Cook CD.
I am not a musical purist. I am a 40-year old woman who had Big Plans and likes to dance. I like counting backwards at midnight on New Years Eve followed by a good hoot n’ holler. I would have really appreciated an extended Vince DiFiore solo to take me out of my head for a few minutes. I couldn’t ascertain if this was Cake’s regular schtick, if it was all tongue-in-cheek, or if McCrea was truly disillusioned with our inadequacies and inability to maintain more than a moment’s silence for the wounded (“you obviously don’t appreciate the sacrifices made for your country or you would have been silent immediately after I asked you to…”) or sing in unison for more than seven minutes. (“Bah”, he waved us off with the flick of his hand after what I thought was a damn good effort).
I am not bitter. I had a great New Year’s Eve. The Riverside Theater is a great venue. We were with good friends. The atmosphere was festive. Everyone was smiling. Klements Sausage Racers were a hit, as were the Brewhaus Polka Kings. There were plenty of sequins, glitter, and animal prints brightening up the joint. The bathroom line conversations were classic. You can bring your beverages right into the theater. I got a long, heated kiss at midnight from my awake and pleasantly buzzed husband. And except for the drunk asshole who kept yelling “MR. MASTADON FARM!!” every thirty seconds, it was like hanging out in an extra large living room with hundreds of your best-dressed and happiest friends. And when all is said and done, it was Cake and I heard some good tunes. They did really crank on “Jolene”. I went the distance, was bound for Mexico, and if I AM a sheep, I’m going to heaven.
I still love Cake. I plan on purchasing those CDs I don’t yet own because I respect their music and want more. I’m all for consciousness-raising through music. You can dis’ me AND my country while I’m listening to you in my car.
But the next time I’m dressed in sparkles (or a short skirt and a loooong jacket) bringing in a new year, I think I’ll select the overwhelming thrill of formula over anti-climactic arrogance.
Happy New Year to the sheep AND the goats.
Perhaps I am easily amused. Perhaps this is just damn funny…
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/10/10/the-mccain-wander_n_133775.html
Poor Clay. He sure picked a bad week to finally come out of his closet. (And thank god he cleared that up, because I had been wearing my sheets thin with all my tossing and turning at night wondering why Clay Aiken hadn’t snatched himself up a pretty lady yet).
Seriously though, for him this was probably a gut-wrenching decision. Not only to announce it publicly, but to do it from the cover of People magazine. I fully acknowledge that coming out is a huge deal. It may provide relief to some, but will ostracize many (or most) from the social and support network they once knew and thought they could rely on. So poor Clay probably braced himself for the fallout that he imagined would happen. How will this impact my career, my relationships with others?
He braced himself for awhile when People hit the stands until he heard about a little scuffle going down on Wall Street. He may have peeked out the door wondering where his media frenzy was around the time The Maverick swore off debates and rode off to Washington. By the time House Republicans were storming out the negotiating door, I envision poor Clay was probably standing on his curb, hands on hips, looking up and down the abandoned street and listening to the chirping of crickets.
No, Clay probably wasn’t counting on other mind-boggling, nerve-wracking, fear & loathing events to happen during his week to shine.
But now that the first debate is under our belts, I’d like to take a break from the battleground to give Clay a little shout out. Way to go, man! It’s a hard road but you came through (and out). And congrats on being a new parent (and you thought coming out was tough)
But the critical question here Clay, is do you have stock with WaMu?
On September 11, 2008, I was working on my glib response to a new ad campaign promoting high fructose corn syrup, when I heard two pretty loud bangs out on my usually snoozy street. I hesitated, and then decided it was loud enough to warrant a peek outside. As I parted the curtains, I heard a woman yelling so I booked outside. “Call 911!” a woman in a minivan yelled to me, “That house is on fire!” I whipped my head around and saw a roar of flames shooting out of the house two doors down. I grabbed my phone, dialed 911, breathlessly babbled my address and repeated “It’s bad, it’s bad…”
Fortunately the owner made it out and was being vigorously coaxed by my next-door neighbor to get up off his lawn and away from some fallen wires. He finally did after both tires on his van parked by the house exploded. Whoever was home at 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon on our block was now outside gaping slack-jawed at the smoke finding its way out of every window. The fire department was probably there in less than five minutes, (which is pretty good for a volunteer crew who has to make a stop at the station before getting to the scene), but those minutes counted. By the time they arrived, I knew it would be a complete loss. All I could do was stand there with my hands on my head muttering, “Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod…”
In ten minutes, our block was crowded with three fire trucks, an ambulance, police cars, and several other random emergency vehicles. Within 15 minutes, people had parked their cars on our lawns and joined the spectacle. Call it morbid curiosity. I don’t doubt some of it was. But this is a small town. When people hear about a fire on a certain street, they KNOW that street. Their cousin, their co-worker’s cousin, their best friend lives on that street. People need to know who might need their help.
I know very little about this neighbor. He is an older man who keeps to himself. He has lived in town all his life. He recently separated from a woman who seems a little unstable. She now lives in an apartment across town and makes frequent treks past his house, occasionally yelling profanities at it from across the street.
At that moment, I wished I knew him. I wanted him to know that I would do anything to help him. I wanted to comfort him. I offered him a drink of water, but he looked right through me. I so desperately wanted to do something for someone. What about the firemen? As I rapidly racked my brain for the hydrating options in my house, the EMS team came in with cases of water bottles and 20 lb. bags of ice. That policeman, he’s been here awhile…maybe he needs water. Who needs to use my bathroom? But I stayed put. No one needed a busybody neighbor getting in anyone’s face trying to satisfy a personal need to feel useful. The emergency crew needed to do their job, and my neighbor needed familiar faces. His estranged wife finally made it across town, dazed and confused, his bar buddy joined him, a niece came. My next-door neighbor, the one who pulled him off his lawn, never left his side. She used my cell phone to call work, so that calmed my failing sense of purpose.
It took almost an hour to extinguish the fire. Apparently our water tower was being painted, thus empty, so they had to bring water in from other sources. By 3:30, the smoke had cleared. Half the block was covered in foam, Alliant Energy was fixing wires, the crowd dissipated. And a shell of a house remained.
Perhaps I’m being melodramatic. It is not the worst disaster anyone has ever witnessed. Thankfully, no one was hurt. Considering the anniversary of this date, this is a drop in the bucket. But it is a dramatic event. My nerves were frazzled. I have never been so close to a fire. I had no idea how fast your entire castle could go. I have never seen firemen drenched from head to toe in foam and soot and sweat. I have never before watched a fireman sit on the curb, propped up against a bag of ice, red-faced and hyperventilating but getting enough air to tell the EMS “You better check on Tom, he went in right after I did”. It hurts your insides to watch.
But nothing gnaws at my gut more than the lingering image of my neighbor sitting on my front lawn with his head in his hands. I have never before seen the face of someone watching their house burn, and I hope I never do again.
On a very small scale, this was my 9/11. Although horrified by the attack seven years ago, I was so far removed from it. The images were on TV. But this is my block. That is my neighbor. I was here for the whole thing. I can only now grasp, again to a small degree, that gut-wrenching feeling watching a disaster happen to your folk. What I’ll never fully comprehend is how painful those images must have been for anyone who witnessed the big 9/11 and lived to tell about it. My neighbor started his fire working on an old motorcycle. It might have been prevented. No one in the World Trade Center was recklessly playing with airplanes that day. What did those witnesses do with their level of gut-wrench? Their feelings of helplessness?
Today, we have plenty of traffic on our block. It is the number one news item in town. The neighbors are chattering like squirrels about where they were when they heard the big bangs. But people need to air it out, get it out of their heads. Talking loosens the tightly wound bundle of nerves. And I know its not supposed to be about The Stuff. Obviously, you get an immediate dose of what is truly a priority, and that is no harm or loss of life. But that Stuff represents your hobbies, your money and hard work, your collections, your memories. It represents you. That Stuff is important. And almost everything that man has worked for and earned and treated himself to is gone.
My life has not changed. This was not my tragedy and it would be foolish of me to claim it as such. Last night, I did not curl into a ball, I made cookies and attended an Open House at the school. I will not march over to enthusiastically introduce myself to all the neighbors I haven’t met yet because we should rally around this house fire as a reason to unify. On this block, that would just be weird. I will get back to picking apart the nutritional content of processed foods and lipstick on pigs and who will get eliminated on Project Runway next week.
But today, the burnt smell in the air haunts me. I can still see the look on my neighbor’s face. The shell of the house two doors down disturbs me. I can’t deny that I have been given a moment of crystal clear perspective. So today, I will do some praying for my neighbor, count some blessings and watch when my son says, “Watch this, Mom!” for the 25th time.
Because today it is fresh on my brain that your life can change in seconds.
After bursting out of the Packer closet with my green and gold #4 pasties on, I find myself quickly picking up my confetti-littered clothes, and tiptoeing backwards into the closet, quietly mumbling a few “excuse me’s” and “pardon me…” along the way.
I’m not going to get into it because plenty of my fellow fans have. And I know everyone is getting a liiiitle sick of the story. At least, they should be, my God.
All I’m sayin’ is the warm feelings of contentedness that I had envisioning Mr. Favre riding off into the Mississippi sunset on his riding lawnmower have been caught in the blades and splattered all over the flower beds.
Ok, I’m not in that much pain, (I mean seriously, it’s a game played by millionaires, my woe about his trade only cuts so deep), but I had to work with the lawnmower reference.
So after some reflection, I have come to a decision as to what I want to see this season. I want both Rodgers and Favre to do incredibly well. Rodgers will be the New Coming, a football messiah with freakishly magical skills. Favre will prove to be a modern-day William Wallace, pumping life and blood and grit back into the battle-weary Jets. It will be a riveting, nail-biting, adrenaline-pumping, exhilarating season watching both men claw their way to the top of the pile. Yes, it will be the Best Season Ever in the History of the World. Both teams will make it to the SuperBowl for the final showdown. Everyone will be on the edge of their seats.
And then Rodgers will kick Favre’s ass. My apologies to my sweet baboo, but no matter how much I enjoy watching Mr. #4 and his well-formed posterior, I will always root for the Cinderella story. Especially one that is seasoned with a little sweet revenge.
Besides, I gotta live here. And there ain’t nuthin’ worse than spending a long Wisconsin winter with a bunch of crabby cheeseheads.
