“Thanksgiving dinners take 18 hours to prepare. They are consumed in 12 minutes.
Half-times take 12 minutes. This is not coincidence." – Erma Bombeck
Thanksgiving dinner got off to a good start. Just before dinner, my son-in-law hit his head on an heirloom sconce in the dining room; it crashed, sending about a thousand tiny glass slivers all over the floor. This was even before beer and wine were served.
Plates and glasses were snatched off the set table and rewashed as a just-in-case maneuver. Luckily, the buffet was safely in the next room. Condiments were moved closer to the Infant of Prague statue and prayed over, while salt was thrown over about a dozen shoulders.
At prayer time, our 6-year-old pagan, Missy, was sucking her thumb and screaming expletives that she had learned from her older brother during an Xbox game. We used duct tape and went on with our meal.
We had ham and turkey, and a wide variety of side dishes. Since our family is diverse, the sides ranged from carrot raisin casserole to arroz rojo to pot stickers. Everybody avoided the Kung Pao gizzards.
After beer was served, Uncles Harry and Dick got into a heated argument over the White House Christmas tree. Dick swore that it is unconstitutional, unless they also added a Menorah and Kwanzaa tree. They also fought over whether or not the very first turducken happened in mid-air.
Every year, they pick something ridiculous to fight about. Last year, they actually fought over the Pope’s nose – "Naso del Papa" – also known as “The part that goes over the fence last.” I'm not sure if there is such a thing as a Vatican dispensation for calling the turkey tail “the Pope's nose”; I never broached the subject in a confessional. Why spoil everyone's fun?
By dessert time, Harry had already spritzed whipping cream on Dick’s nose. Hoping the family dog, Spuds, would attack him. Spuds maintained his cool, drooled over the cheerleaders on the TV, then looked at Dick’s nostrils and groaned. In his youth, Dick used to look like Jimmy Durante; now that he is older, and certain body parts are succumbing to gravity, he closely resembles a Proboscis monkey.
I already had Harry’s sleeping bag out in the barn with the kerosene heater. I was leaving nothing to chance.
The men went into the family room to watch football, teenagers were champing at the bit to go to the mall on Black Friday, little ones sat playing Penguins and Facebook games on several notebook PCs, a determined grandson was on his 25th rendition of "I Want a Hippopotamus For Christmas" with his Nintendo guitar, and the rest of us sat around the dining room table gossiping.
Cousin Millie divulged the fact that Uncle Harry has a foot fetish and has a pair of red sequined stilettos and a votive candle on his night stand. She said that Grandma always blamed his podophilia on the fact that they had to live in a basement apartment in the theatre district during his formative years. After we all finished laughing, we finally agreed that the first turducken probably did happen in mid-air over Harry’s house.
My eyes were as glazed over as our left-over ham by 11:00 pm, so I excused myself and went upstairs; leaving my husband to entertain some of our overnight guests. About five minutes later, he snuck up and accused me of abandoning ship.
“Football doesn’t turn me on,” I said. “Besides, look at the bright side – your mundane life would be boring without overnight house guests trying to come up with a great theme song for your NY Giants; and Uncle Dick looks so ridiculous in that mascot hat. Why don’t you just start a game of “Simile” with a political theme?”
“You’re not funny!” he said.
Bah! Humbug! I am so not looking forward to another family fiasco at Christmas time!